The Fall of Ceres I – The Legend of Hunger – Chapter 7

The Fall of Ceres I – The Legend of Hunger

They say that, forty years ago, the heart of the continent stopped beating.

It was when Mãe Ceres, in her quest for eternal glory, accepted to trade the lives of her children for the future of the stars.

At that time, Ceres was already a garden among deserts. Its fields of wheat, rice, corn, and soy fed entire cities, and its scientists dreamed higher than any other people. They wanted to send seeds into space, study cosmic radiation, and create grains that would never die. But the sky demanded a price that even their coffers could not pay.

Then, in the War Council, a plan was born that would stain history with ash and bones.

— If hunger does not come to us, we will bring it to ourselves.

They created an invisible plague, a laboratory-bred pest capable of destroying any crop on the continent — even those of Ceres. It was a betrayal of the very womb that fed them.

When the winds carried the plague, silence fell over the fields.

The corn rotted, the wheat withered, and the earth lay bare.

It was the beginning of the Five Years of Hunger.

For the first time, the citizens of Ceres knew the slow death of malnutrition. Children cried until they lost their voices. Adults collapsed over the empty furrows of the earth. Some scientists died clutching seeds stored inside vaults, unable to plant salvation before the right time.

They say the first Mãe Ceres secretly went on a hunger strike, as an offering to the suffering of her children. That she wasted away before the eyes of a chosen few, until another Mother, already prepared, took her place.

To the people, she never died: she was eternal, incorruptible.

And faith was the only food that remained.

In the fifth year came the profane miracle.

The resistant seeds were revealed.

The fields blossomed as though nothing had happened.

The entire continent, kneeling and starving, received salvation from the very hands that had caused the famine.

Ceres became, at the same time, saint and tyrant.

Millions of bodies were left behind, but Ceres' coffers filled.

And its scientists finally raised their eyes toward space.

Upon bones, hunger, and silence, the station that would carry its seeds to the stars was born.

And the continent never forgot:

the life they received from Ceres could be taken away at any moment.

Prologue – The Fall and Rise of Ceres (Burned Archive Version)

(Charred page, smell of old smoke)

[Recovered excerpt]

Forty years ago, the heart of the continent […].

Mãe Ceres accepted to trade the lives of her children […] future of the stars.

Ceres was a garden among deserts. Its fields of […] and soy fed entire cities.

In the War Council, the plan was born […].

“If hunger does not come to us […]” (burned)

They created an invisible plague […].

The corn rotted, the wheat withered, and the earth lay bare.

(The edges of the page are black; letters are missing)

ARCHIVES OF HUNGER – RESTRICTED ACCESS

(Faded stamp, dark stains)

Year 1 of the Hunger

“Today I ate only a bitter root I found […].
Mother says rationing will return, but the neighbor died yesterday […].”

Year 2 of the Hunger

“I buried my son yesterday. He was five years old.
You promised that Mãe Ceres would never […].”

(Cracked page – the rest is dust)

Year 3 of the Hunger

“I stole bread. Forgive me.
If they kill me, my daughter will still have tomorrow.”

Year 4 of the Hunger

“The vault keys weigh more than my own life […].
I hear the screams outside and I know I have the cure in my hands […].”

Year 5 of the Hunger

“I have been fasting for forty days.
The body fails, but the plan flourishes.
May my children […].
May the world […].
May the stars receive me.”

(The final sentence has been burned; only ash remains along the edge)

[Excerpt from the Report on the Miracle – partially illegible]

The miracle came.

The plague disappeared.

The continent knelt.

No one questioned where the hunger had come from, no one dared say […].

With its coffers full, Ceres began its greatest undertaking:

the first scientific station in space.

A temple in orbit, born from bones.

(There are stains resembling fingerprints, as though someone handled the document before burning it.)

Final Note (handwritten, almost illegible)

“If you have read this far, you are already an accomplice.

Burn this archive, or it will burn you.”

“Remember us. We were the soil upon which Ceres grew to touch the stars.”

Continental Council Union and the Tensions with Ceres I

Across the vast territory of the Continental Council, the fundamentalist nation Sacred Opus Omni, located west of Ceres, stands as the only voice openly threatening Ceres I.

They accuse the nation of blasphemy for “touching the heavens.”

Meanwhile, other nations adopt pragmatic positions:

• Oplon, a supremacist regime, discreetly supports Ceres I, admiring its audacity, but waits for concrete evidence before investing.

• Garpan, with its devastating oil industry, sees potential in an alliance with Ceres, but its black ash poisons the continent and stains any attempt to present itself as a hero.

• Fiume, an avowed enemy of Garpan, silently hopes for the project's downfall, knowing that any success by Ceres benefits Garpan economically.

Mãe Ceres, the strategist, saw the tensions as fuel.

To her, diplomatic chaos was fertile: where others saw conflict, she saw opportunity.

Council Meeting – The Sky in Dispute

The great chamber seemed to weigh under the sheer silence.

At the center, a long obsidian table reflected the tense expressions of the assembled leaders. The air was dense, almost solid.

The representative of Sacred Opus Omni, wrapped in a scarlet robe embroidered with symbols of flames, was the first to rise:

— Every time Ceres crosses the atmosphere with its station, we are forced to sacrifice citizens. A tribute demanded to appease the offended gods.

He paused.

— What they call progress, we call blasphemy. Touching the heavens, manipulating life, defying the sacred — it is arrogance.

The ambassador of Garpan, corpulent and sweating, leaned toward the microphone:

— We respect your faith, Opus Omni, but faith does not fill stomachs. The science of Ceres I may be the key to our survival in the face of climate change.

The representative of Oplon, pale, with piercing eyes, gave a low laugh:

— And Garpan speaks as though it weren't drowning the continent in oil. We support Ceres I, but we will invest only if there are guarantees. Pragmatism demands caution.

In the corner, the delegate from Fiume crossed her arms, her voice soft but cutting:

— If it succeeds, Garpan will grow richer. If it fails, the continent will pay the price. I say: let the station rise... and fall on its own.

The ambassador of Arcadia requested the floor.

Thin and elegant, his voice was a blade:

— We are against Ceres I.

He let the sentence hang before continuing:

— The sky belongs to no one. And everyone here knows that.

A murmur swept through the chamber. Even Oplon and Garpan nodded reluctantly.

It was an indisputable truth: space belonged to everyone — and to no one.

An orbital station was, above all, a target.

At the back of the room, Mãe Ceres watched in silence.

Her eyes fixed on the window, where the station, invisible to the naked eye, orbited above their heads — a sentinel between the stars and the earth.

The first to speak was the representative of Sacred Opus Omni, wrapped in a scarlet robe embroidered with symbols of flames.

His voice resonated like a sermon:

— Every time Ceres crosses the atmosphere with its station, we sacrifice citizens. One for every passage. One for every affront to the gods!

The room fell silent. The echo of his words seemed to scratch the glass ceiling.

— You call this progress. We call it blasphemy.

The ambassador of Garpan, corpulent, his face sweating beneath the lights, leaned toward the microphone with disdain:

— We respect your faith, Opus Omni, but faith does not fill stomachs. The science of Ceres I may be our only chance against the climate changes everyone pretends not to notice.

The representative of Oplon, pale, her eyes sharp as razor blades, gave a dry laugh:

— And Garpan speaks as though it weren't drowning the continent in oil. We support Ceres I, but we are not fools enough to invest without guarantees. Pragmatism demands caution.

In the corner, the delegate from Fiume, arms crossed, fired back coldly:

— If it succeeds, Garpan will grow richer. If it fails, the continent will pay the price. I say: let the station rise... and fall on its own.

Then Arcadia requested the floor.

The ambassador, thin and elegant, spoke with a clarity that cut like a blade:

— We are against Ceres I.

He allowed the weight of the words to hang over the room before continuing:

— The sky belongs to no one. And everyone here knows that.

A murmur traveled across the table.

Even Oplon and Garpan nodded reluctantly.

It was an uncomfortable truth: space belonged to everyone — and to no one.

An orbital station was, above all, a target.

Behind the Scenes

The microphones were turned off.

Protocol announced a recess.

That was when the real games began.

Garpan whispered with Fiume, seeking guarantees in exchange for future concessions.

Oplon whispered about “corrective measures” — silent sabotage, should Ceres grow too powerful.

An Arcadian adviser, discreetly, slipped a folded note to the envoy from Sacred Opus Omni.

The message was simple, written in firm letters:

“If you provide volunteers for an act of faith, we will provide the missile.”

The alliances were being stitched together in the shadows, far from the official speeches.

At the back of the room, upon her discreet throne, Mãe Ceres watched everything.

The scepter rested beside her, her eyes fixed upon the subtle movements, like a queen who already knew the outcome of the game.

Mãe Ceres' Declaration

When everyone had taken their seats again, she finally rose.

The chamber fell silent.

Her voice was calm, but every syllable fell like a stone into a pond:

— I know the sky belongs to no one.

She turned the holographic globe of Ceres I at the center of the table, its light reflecting across her face.

— I know my station could be destroyed tomorrow. I know that every second in orbit is a risk.

She paused, looking at each of the leaders with a gaze that asked for no approval.

— But within months, Ceres I will produce research worth billions.

Resistant seeds. Reports transmitted by radio.

We will change history — in months.

She raised her hand, pointing toward the hologram slowly rotating before them.

— Our Golden Age has begun.

She gave a brief smile, her gaze shining like polished steel:

— And when it blooms... you will see that, even if the sky belongs to no one, the earth has someone to feed it.

The silence that followed was neither approval nor fear.

It was the silence of those who realized that the future had already been decided.

The Queen's Silence

The control room was located on the 33rd floor of the Tower of Ceres.

There were no windows.

Only projectors illuminating maps of the continent and the orbit of Ceres I.

The bluish light traced faint dark circles beneath Mãe Ceres' eyes and an impenetrable serenity across her face.

On the titanium table, three sealed folders awaited:

1. Human Losses

2. Project Status

3. Financial Reports

She opened the third.

Profits, loans, gold reserves, promissory notes from nations kneeling before the hunger and science of Ceres.

The entire continent reduced to numbers.

The second folder displayed ascending graphs:

• Germination rate in microgravity: 217% above projections

• Cosmic radiation report: promising for resistant seeds

• First batch ready for reentry: 11 days

Mãe Ceres smiled faintly.

She did not open the Human Losses folder.

Her hand rested upon the seal.

She closed her eyes for a moment and slid it toward the corner of the table.

She did not need to see the numbers.

She already knew the price of the miracle.

The Contact from Silencium

The main projector came alive with a low hum.

The silhouette of Chancellor Áquila appeared, surrounded by shades of green and gold, as though even the projector feared the presence of a predator.

— Mãe Ceres — he said, with that drawn-out accent of Silencium — I see Ceres I is still hovering above us. Arcadia hasn't fired?

— Not yet — she replied, folding her hands over the table. — And if they do... they will miss.

Áquila gave a low laugh, the laugh of a man who had already bought and sold lives through diplomacy.

— I received your request for supplies. Rare metals, secondary fuel, and... — he read the list with pleasure — ...ah, the usual toys.

— They are not toys, Chancellor. — Mãe Ceres said without changing her tone. — They are seeds that can buy the future.

Áquila smiled, as though he had expected the answer.

— And what do you give me in return, Mãe Ceres?

She moved closer to the projector, and for an instant, her shadow seemed larger than she was.

The control room seemed to shrink before her presence.

— The power not to starve while the world burns.

The silence that followed lasted three seconds.

Three heavy seconds.

Then Áquila tilted his head, in a gesture that mixed respect and cynicism.

— Done. Silencium remains a friend of Mãe Ceres... as long as Mãe Ceres remains a friend of Silencium.

The projector shut down with a sharp click.

Mãe Ceres remained motionless, as though the end of the transmission were merely a detail.

She already knew the answer before Áquila had even given it.

War is never won at the moment of the shot —

but in the instant before it, when the enemy realizes that they have already lost.

The Weight of Command

Alone, Mãe Ceres walked toward the glass panel, where the orbit of Ceres I pulsed in projection.

Sunlight reflected off the station, making it shine like an artificial star.

For a moment, she spoke to herself, in a whisper the room itself seemed unworthy of hearing:

— My Golden Age was born from ashes.

— May the heavens forgive me... if they can.

Behind her, the Human Losses folder remained closed.

There was no need to open it.

The numbers were already etched into her skin.

The Twilight of Mãe Ceres

The sky that night was clear, unreal, as though the world itself were holding its breath before the blow.

From the terrace of the Tower of Ceres, she watched the dark blue swallow the last traces of sunset.

Up above, alone, Ceres I cut across the firmament, a jewel among shadows.

She knew.

There were no alarms.

No signal on the radio.

Only instinct.

Something was coming.

The world held its breath.

Then, a streak of light tore across the sky.

A flash — far too fast to be a shooting star — struck the station.

Ceres I exploded in silence, blossoming into a thousand fragments that reflected the moonlight and the distant glow of the cities.

It was a rain of diamonds and fire, falling in slow motion.

Mãe Ceres did not scream.

She did not run.

She simply allowed her eyes to fill with tears.

She watched, without looking away, as destruction crowned her work.

Each incandescent fragment scored the sky like a signature of tragedy.

It was as though the universe, for one brief moment, had bowed to witness the spectacle of her ruin.

— My miracle died beautiful... — she whispered, with a broken smile. — And the continent will weep blood for it.

Prologue – Archives of the Tower of Ceres

These records were recovered in charred fragments, hidden in the basements of the Tower of Ceres.

The official seal read “Confidential – War Council.”

The fire consumed the rest.

If you are reading this, you are already an accomplice to the history that will never be told to the people of the continent.

Forty years before the so-called Golden Age, Mãe Ceres dared to challenge the heavens.

The woman who transformed hunger into power dreamed of planting seeds among the stars — where radiation and silence would forge harvests that neither winter nor plague could destroy.

Science promised miracles.

Politics demanded blood.

Mãe Ceres' plan began with hunger.

For five years, plagues devastated the continent — plagues created in Ceres' own laboratories.

The citizens felt the dry mouth of despair.

Thousands died.

And, at the height of the sacrifice, the first Mãe Ceres fasted to death, so that her successor could assume the throne with faith intact.

The continent knelt.

The coffers filled.

And Ceres I was born — raised with the metal of Silencium, the favors of Garpan, and the complicit silence of Oplon.

Mãe Ceres knew the risks.

She knew that for every seed germinating in orbit, thousands would die on the ground.

She knew that Arcadia was plotting: fanaticism on one side, missiles on the other.

She knew that the sky belonged to no one — but she also knew that the earth would eat only what Ceres decided to plant.

When Ceres I rose, eight astronauts accompanied the miracle.

From below, the continent looked toward the sky with hatred and reverence intertwined.

That clear night, Mãe Ceres climbed to the terrace of the Tower.

The wind smelled of stone and metal.

And it was there, alone, that she watched her ruin being born beautiful in the heavens.

A streak of light cut across the firmament.

The impact — silent, perfect — transformed Ceres I into a bouquet of fire and diamonds.

Fragments shone like weeping stars, scattering across the night sky.

Eight children of Ceres died in orbit.

And the continent watched the spectacle without understanding that the Golden Age was beginning in ashes.

Mãe Ceres smiled.

Her eyes were filled with tears, but it was not a smile of victory.

Nor of defeat.

It was the smile of someone who understands that beauty and tragedy always walk hand in hand.

— My miracle died beautiful, — whispered Mãe Ceres.

— And the continent will weep blood for it.

The following day, newspapers printed in cold letters:

ORBITAL INCIDENT: CERES I LOST

No evidence.

No culprit.

No statue for the eight dead.

But in the shadows of history, we — accomplices simply because we read what we were never meant to read — know:

The Golden Age began with hunger, fire, and silence.