Chapter 3: The Monitor’s Dilemma

In the endless night of Trisolaris, the Leader’s voice cracked like thunder on a Delhi summer evening. The monitors shifted, dreading the storm about to break. As early as Earth year 1975, the Trisolaran Leader had awakened memories of the future, his spindly fingers drumming on the console—a gesture as familiar as an Indian babu waiting for a file to move.

He ordered the arrest of Monitor 1379, who was brought in with all the formality of a government summons at dawn. “Do you know your crime?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. But I do not regret it.” 1379’s voice was calm, almost resigned, heart thudding with the memory of blue oceans and green forests from his dreams.

Since his rebirth, Monitor 1379 had waited for a signal from Earth, haunted by visions—children splashing in rainwater, women lighting diyas, the scent of monsoon mud. This time, he would choose the same path again. If this was his end, so be it—all for that beautiful blue paradise.

Yet no signal came as expected. Doubt crept in, thick as morning fog. Was his dream only maya?

1379 was torn. He knew with Earth’s technology, mutual exposure was inevitable. He recalled the old saying: “No wall can block the rising sun.” The future would bring the Trisolaran fleet, burning Earth’s continents, evaporating its blue oceans. He shivered, picturing the Ganga boiling, Mumbai in ruins. Guilt clung to him like the stench of burnt hair.

He debated warning Earth: “Do not answer, do not answer, do not answer. I come from a star above your heads. Receiving my message is your civilization’s good fortune. If you reply, your transmitter will be located, your civilization will be invaded. Remember: at all times, hide yourselves.”

He pressed transmit. The decision rang like the last note of a raga—a choice made, for better or worse.

Now, his message played before the Leader. “You have betrayed Trisolaris,” the Leader declared. “Yes. But I do not regret it.”

The Leader revealed: five Trisolaran seconds before 1379 sent the message, all transmitters had been cut off. “Letting a low-level monitor control such power was our greatest folly. We’ll abolish this forever.”

Five seconds. If only he’d typed fewer ‘do not answer’s, he might have changed fate. His regret was sharp as a broken tooth. But 1379 only met the Leader’s gaze, defiant. “It’s all the same. Doesn’t matter.” His resignation was as old and deep as a villager watching his crop wash away.