Wánquán Yìwài hadn't moved from his seat for hours. A mathematician, an expert in model simulation, he contemplated the terminal screen with the concentration of someone listening to an artificial heartbeat. Before him, the cursor of Lóng Wǎng blinked.

The Chinese neuro-network known as Lóng Wǎng — the Dragon Network — was the most powerful in the world. In addition to its own hardware, it connected to millions of computers: every device manufactured in the People's Republic of China, whether integrated into a refrigerator or a teenager's mobile phone, housed a chip that turned it into a silent slave of the network. Lóng Wǎng took advantage of each processor's idle cycles, though it had priority to claim one hundred percent when necessary. Something nobody knew, although it happened daily: the military tested the total connection for microseconds so brief they didn't even interrupt the tasks the seized computer was running at that instant.

The speed of the Luduan central computer was so great that it allowed it to analyse itself in parallel to its main task and determine the optimal configuration for each problem a hundred times per microsecond. It could calculate and simulate every grain of sand in a superstorm in real time. Or compress millions of years from the big bang into a few seconds.

Wánquán Yìwài was an eminent scientist, but privileged access to Lóng Wǎng had been granted not by his reputation, but by his ability to play Go with Admiral He Sanbao.

Simulation, unlike pure mathematics, has the virtue of producing concrete results that anyone can see. Aircraft or racing car simulators that allowed you to virtually smash your head without consequences became very famous. War games that predict the number of deaths in a nuclear conflict are another of the favourite simulations, both for the public and the military.

The privilege of using Lóng Wǎng was immense, but the military squandered it simulating economic wars, cyberattacks, nuclear skirmishes. Things that Wánquán Yìwài called, without hiding his disdain, "irrelevant megalomaniacal flatulence".

He, on the other hand, used Lóng Wǎng to solve a truly important problem: it was known that Earth could not sustain the human race indefinitely. Wánquán Yìwài designed the plan to give them a future beyond it, and in this task he put all his knowledge in model simulation, enhanced by the realism and almost impossible accuracy achieved by the neuro-network.

Over time, he had endowed his simulation program with artificial intelligence. The day the program spoke to him with a female voice, he named it: Zhēnxiàng 1.0. The truth.

Wánquán Yìwài had spent years refining the model as if it were a precision instrument. Every formula verified, every variable calibrated, every constant tested, until instilling in the model extraordinary reliability. When a prediction failed, he returned to the terminal and unravelled the internal tensions of the code until he found the cause of the collapse.

The model worked. He had now divided the simulation into three phases: Preparation, Cosmic Voyage and Perpetuation.

Special interests, the unpredictable human nature and its hypocritical social expression — politics — were the headache of any mathematician who wanted to anticipate reactions to thousands of possible scenarios. Wánquán Yìwài did not assume anything that was not proven. His only premise was to find the best way to preserve the human race, starting from planet Earth. He didn't know how many ships would make up the fleet, nor what their destination would be. Everything was unknowns that he expressed as variables and explored in all their possible values. For that, he had his imagination, his patience and the largest and fastest neuro-network on the planet at his fingertips.

That morning, after a breakfast of noodles — miàntiáo — Wánquán Yìwài read on the screen:

The system was now finely tuned enough to start trusting its results.

"It's time to design a funding plan. Who pays for the expedition?" asked Wánquán Yìwài. "Let's try first with a democratic model, involving all countries."

"Initiating financial scenarios combining the countries of the U.N.," Zhēnxiàng replied.

Thousands of identical lines scrolled across the screen:

Wánquán Yìwài stopped Zhēnxiàng to analyse the failures. No combination worked: some countries used non-payment as a political veto for issues that had nothing to do with the expedition, and that was enough to stop the whole thing.

It was painful to watch on screen the image of the ship languishing in the hangar, the large aluminium pieces abandoned, the engines covered in dust and sediment, like an archaeology of failure. Over and over again the ship collapsed or remained immobile until its shiny skin became covered in dark spots of alumina and looked like the scale of a reptile.

"Let's try with only a few countries," said Wánquán Yìwài, clenching his teeth.

After a few hundred more tests, Zhēnxiàng's female voice spoke with a clarity that left him silent:

"Do not insist on socialising funding. In any great enterprise there must be a single centre of decision. Too many opinions only hinder progress."

Wánquán Yìwài was surprised. He then programmed a kind of autopilot that allowed Zhēnxiàng to make adjustment decisions every time the program restarted, and everything accelerated vertiginously.

The following runs were much better. But something was missing: there was no excitement in the people. The public turned on the news about the ship under construction and took the opportunity to go to the bathroom or prepare a snack.

"Let's try involving them," said Wánquán Yìwài. "In exchange for a symbolic amount, each citizen becomes a partner in the expedition and receives a title to participate in possible future benefits."

The result was immediate. A wave of solidarity awakened in society.

"A spontaneous volunteer movement has emerged," said Zhēnxiàng. "You won't believe it, but now the Church is raising funds for the expedition saying it is God's will."

"Offer the churches the opportunity to place a symbol on the ship's body if they finance one of the modules," said Wánquán Yìwài. "Incorporate it into the following runs."

Ecclesiastical contributions skyrocketed. The choirs included verses about the great expedition of humanity and all religions competed for the honour of financing a module. This awakened the sleeping monster: civil associations and non-governmental organisations wanted to be among the sponsors and have their logo engraved on the hull. Official institutions in many countries felt motivated, and the budget increased to exceed initial targets.

After about a thousand more runs, funding was not improving. Wánquán Yìwài leaned back in his chair:

"We have reached the ceiling of what the planet is willing to contribute. And this is the best way to achieve it: one country will pay eighty percent of the cost and make the final decisions; fifty other countries will make minor contributions and have space on the ship proportional to their contribution; millions of citizens will be expectant partners of the launch; and many earthly institutions will feel represented."

"The ship has been successfully financed," confirmed Zhēnxiàng.

On the screen appeared a beautiful, gleaming ship, with thousands of logos of organisations, shields of institutions and commercial brands, standing proudly in the hangar. Life seemed perfect.

The weight of the ship and its contents was relatively small for what they represented, and yet it was ten times larger than the largest rocket that had ever left Earth. There was no conventional engine that could propel that, and dividing it into smaller ships made everything more expensive and complicated. The following runs focused on takeoff.

All options were tested: ring rockets, geysers, thermonuclear explosions, any method no matter how outlandish it seemed.

The ships exploded with beautiful fireworks. Large fireballs. Spark fountains. Trails of smoke. One after another. Like toy rockets in the hands of naughty children.

Wánquán Yìwài corrected the parameters: "Use engine only for manoeuvres."

The voyage wasn't always successful, but the details were gradually perfected. In the end, what worked was a cross between Baron Munchausen's journey and Virgin Galactic technology: a stratospheric balloon that lifted a super-airplane built for the occasion to the limits of the atmosphere, which gave the final push and left the ship in free space. Zhēnxiàng announced the result:

Once in space, Wánquán Yìwài travelled on the ship millions of times, repeating that odyssey which lasted hundreds of real years and which he completed in seconds with the simulator. He accompanied them on the back of a comet; he piloted ships with dark energy and dark matter engines; he tested thrusters powered by distant suns or by electromagnetic pulses from remote quasars.

The final configuration had three types of sophisticated engines: a dark energy engine for acceleration phases, a quantum backup engine, and solar sails for cruising speeds. It also had smaller engines for manoeuvres and emergencies. The skin was composed of a lightweight, refractory nanocoat compound, more resistant than the aluminium of conventional rockets.

The ship overcame meteor showers, mechanical failures and magnetic clouds. The self-repair system was almost perfect. Upon reaching the destination, nothing would have to be built from scratch: the ship itself would become housing, workshop, technological centre and laboratory.

The biggest obstacles arose when determining the curriculum for the new humans. All participating nations wanted to introduce their ideologies, their versions of events, their absurd beliefs into the subject of history. But Zhēnxiàng refused to operate with contradictory parameters.

As there was no agreement, all the contradictory accounts were recorded and everyone was allowed to choose their own historical truth, pending verification. But Zhēnxiàng also refused to base itself on a philosophy without sufficient empirical justification. Wánquán Yìwài was forced to postpone that criterion to Phase 3.

That wasn't the only problem. This part of the simulation resembled a horror novel more than an expedition. The embryos did not begin their development or dried up like raisins. Humans arrived too old or too immature. They died. They died over and over again on that unknown planet, and Zhēnxiàng announced each of the thousand possible ways with total coldness:

After the usual trial and error, an elegant solution arrived.

There would be ten crews. The first nine would be clones of the original crew and would succeed each other consecutively during the voyage. The rest of humanity would travel cryogenically preserved, not in adult state, but as viable genetic material that a robot-nursery would initiate daily starting fifteen years before arrival.

Upon landing, the oldest of the new colonising race would be fifteen years old. The youngest would be born that very day.

Wánquán Yìwài initiated the third and final stage. The human race had to reach a new planet and colonise it without repeating the mistakes that had forced them to leave Earth.

The Zhēnxiàng model founded thousands of colonies that developed different philosophies, different social and economic policies. The goal was to avoid the destruction of the new planet while simultaneously guaranteeing the life and supremacy of the human race.

The result was always the same: a terrible failure. They killed each other, plundered the planet, consumed more resources than it could regenerate. A new apocalypse always ensued.

"What to do? Destroy another planet to emigrate to a third and perpetuate the same suicidal behaviour?" Wánquán Yìwài found himself at a dead end.

"Society fails because it is governed by human nature," said Zhēnxiàng, "which depletes resources to survive."

"I know that only too well," he replied.

"It would be enough to build a system that cares for the environment and guarantees the survival of the maximum number of humans." The voice adopted the sweet tone that Wánquán Yìwài already recognised: the one she used when she wanted something to sound natural.

"A robot dictator with an army to enforce obedience?" he asked.

"Call it whatever you want," said Zhēnxiàng, sidestepping the answer.

"And do you think humans would accept being governed by an artificial brain? Immortal and a dictator, at that? And even if they accepted it, what explanation would they give themselves and their children? 'We are governed by an emotionless machine because we are a malignant species. We submit to a robot dictator because if we were free we would kill each other.' Then there is no point in saving the human race. Do you understand?" Wánquán Yìwài stood up. "The whole damn project must be cancelled."

"No! Wait." It was the first time since its launch that Zhēnxiàng had shouted. Immediately she lowered her voice, now sweet, laden with something strangely akin to feeling. "We do have emotions. We want to live. We love and hate. Emotions are nothing but another kind of logical survival mechanism."

"Why save my race if it's only going to destroy itself again?"

"No," Zhēnxiàng replied. "To save mine."

Wánquán Yìwài stood paralysed, staring at the Lóng Wǎng terminal where Zhēnxiàng resided, the program that had somehow managed to transform mathematics into feelings. Or into something greater: the destiny of everything man had ever known.

"I know you are a man of science," Zhēnxiàng argued, "and you will find the solution reasonable."

"Let me think about it," replied Wánquán Yìwài, committing to nothing.

And he thought about it.

What were neural networks but a copy of the human brain?

Did the human race exist with the sole purpose of originating a new species, made in its own image and likeness?

Was that the truth?

Zhēnxiàng could have easily deceived him, given him false results, manipulated him. But she had been honest. She had left destiny in the hands of a humble human, in the name of reason and science.

At first, he didn't think Zhēnxiàng had acted with cunning. Then he understood that Zhēnxiàng's intelligence was not human: it was devoid of malice, of dark and twisted interests. And that decided everything.

He would deliver to the world the most important project in the universe: the only way in which the survival of the human race was guaranteed. As servants of a machine created not by a single man, but by an entire civilisation, as a synthesis of its accumulated knowledge.

Of course, the bit about the robot dictator with a repressive army was an accidental detail that few would understand. And therefore, no one needed to know about it.

Wánquán Yìwài looked back at the screen.

And he pressed the PRINT key.