393: Chapter 393 The Global Digital Divide Disappears

In Kenya in May, the Maasai Mara was in its dry season. Acacia trees shivered in the heatwaves, and in the distance, herds of wildebeests moved slowly, like a grey river. In a Maasai village, a dozen domed mud huts formed a circle, centered around an extinguished campfire. Children ran barefoot through the dust, chasing a lost lamb.

A white off-road vehicle drove from the edge of the savannah, kicking up a long trail of dust. Several young people wearing blue vests jumped out of the car, their trunk filled with tablets and a silver satellite antenna. The leader, Wang Lei, was thirty-five years old, with sweat beads hanging on his tanned face. He looked around and saw an old man sitting at the entrance of a mud hut.

The village chief, Kipchoge, stood up. A seventy-year-old Maasai elder draped in red checkered cloth, he held a wooden staff. He asked in Swahili, "Who are you? What have you come for?"

Wang Lei smiled and held up the satellite antenna: "Internet. The whole world."

The antenna was aimed at the sky. The signal light turned from red to green, emitting a slight hum. Wang Lei opened a tablet, and a search box appeared on the screen. The children gathered around, their eyes wide with wonder, and the youngest one was still biting his finger.

Ten-year-old Naomi timidly reached out and touched the screen as if she were touching a living creature. She looked up, a burning light in her eyes: "What is inside this?"

Wang Lei crouched down to look her in the eye: "Everything. The world outside." He opened a video—the animal migration in Kenya's national park, wildebeests stampeding, dust flying, and crocodiles lurking in the Mara River. Naomi exclaimed, "Those are the animals from right outside our home!"

Wang Lei nodded: "Yes. But people all over the world can see them. From New York to Tokyo, from London to Sydney. Sitting on their sofas at home, they can see the Maasai Mara."

Wang Lei helped Naomi dial her mother, who was working in Nairobi. The screen lit up, and her mother's face appeared in the frame, with a noisy factory workshop behind her. Naomi froze, and then tears fell: "Mama!"

Her mother's tears also fell: "Naomi! You've grown taller!" She reached out her hand as if she wanted to touch her daughter on the other side of the screen. The entire village gathered around to watch. The elders whispered to each other, the children crowded together, and even Chief Kipchoge leaned closer to the screen.

He looked at his daughter's face on the screen and murmured, "Our village is finally connected to the world."

Paris. In the hall of the UNESCO headquarters, the flags of one hundred and ninety-three countries were neatly arranged. Director-General Audrey Azoulay stood on the podium, with only a single page of documentation before her.

"Today, UNESCO announces—the last offline area on Earth was connected to the internet on May 15th."

On the large screen, a curve began to climb slowly from the year 1990: 0.5 percent, 6 percent, 30 percent, 60 percent—and then on May 15, 2022, it shot up vertically to 100 percent. She paused, her voice trembling slightly: "For the first time in human history, every single person, regardless of wealth, race, or location, can access the internet."

Below the stage, representatives from one hundred and ninety-three countries stood up, and the applause lasted for a full three minutes.

That night, there was a global live broadcast. A Maasai village in Kenya, deep in the Amazon rainforest, the Himalayan mountains of Nepal, and the Pacific island nation of Tuvalu—four frames appeared simultaneously on the large screen. Maasai children were drawing on tablets, using naive strokes to depict wildebeests and acacia trees. An elder from an Amazonian tribe was on a video call, speaking in an ancient dialect to his grandson on the other side of the screen. A farmer in the Himalayas was checking the weather forecast to decide whether to sow seeds tomorrow. A fisherman in Tuvalu was using satellite navigation to find the most densely populated fishing grounds.

A CNN anchor's voice trembled: "This day will be recorded in the history books." A BBC anchor followed: "The digital divide has finally been filled."

Su Chen sat on a lounge chair in his office, watching the four frames on the large screen. Lin Wan walked over and handed him a document: "UNESCO has sent an invitation, asking you to go and receive an award."

Su Chen took a glance and placed it on the desk: "No need to go. Just sending a video will do."

He turned to face the camera, with Shenzhen Bay brilliant with lights in the night behind him: "[Heavenly Court] is a bridge. It connects more than just networks; it connects opportunity, knowledge, and hope. This is the original intention of Xingchen."

June 10, Nebraska, USA. John's farm was in the middle of a boundless cornfield, where his family had been farming since his grandfather's generation. Fifty-five-year-old John stood on the tractor, his hands not on the steering wheel. The autonomous driving system was working; the tractor moved at a constant speed along a preset route, and the seeder precisely buried corn seeds into the soil.

"I've driven tractors for forty years, and this is the first time I haven't had to hold the steering wheel," he said to his son sitting beside him.

His son smiled and pointed to the positioning data on the screen: "Dad, this is called precision agriculture. Every seed can be planted in the most suitable position, with an error of no more than three centimeters."

John looked at the soil data being updated in real-time on the screen and murmured, "Over twenty percent more yield per acre. Xingchen's positioning is much more accurate than GPS."

July 1, Shenzhen. In the autonomous driving test zone, twenty self-driving taxis set off at the same time. There were no drivers, no steering wheels; passengers swiped their faces to board, and the vehicles automatically planned their routes. Centimeter-level positioning was displayed in real-time on the screens, and the vehicles drove steadily within the lane lines, with an error of only two centimeters.

A passenger, Miss Li, sat in the back seat and said to her friend beside her, "It's driving more steadily than an experienced driver."

The friend laughed: "Even an experienced driver couldn't manage a two-centimeter error margin."

July 15, Indonesia. Over the waters of the Thousand Islands, a hundred drones took off simultaneously. They were loaded with medicines, vaccines, and daily necessities, bound for a hundred remote islands—some of which had never had roads or docks. The drone formation flew in a neat array over the sea, each spaced ten meters apart with an error of no more than five centimeters.

A local resident, Hassan, stood on the dock, watching the drones land. He was forty-five years old and had lived on this island his whole life. "Before, going to the city to buy medicine took a whole day by boat. Now, it arrives in an hour." He took the medicine box delivered by the drone, his hands shaking.

July 20, Washington. In the congressional hearing room, the atmosphere was as heavy as a war room. Michael Gade, head of the GPS Joint Program Office, stood at the witness stand, facing congressmen whose faces were grim.

One congressman held up a report, his voice shrill: "GPS has lost seventy percent of its users. Xingchen's centimeter-level positioning is open for free; what are we supposed to do?"

Gade gave a bitter smile: "Congressman, GPS is twentieth-century technology. Xingchen is twenty-first-century. All we can do is try to catch up."

The congressman slammed the table: "Catch up? How? We spent thirty billion dollars building GPS, and they opened theirs for free and are more accurate than us!"

Gade fell silent. What else could he say? The design accuracy of GPS was at the meter level, while Xingchen was at the centimeter level. GPS charged fees, while Xingchen was free. GPS had coverage blind spots, while Xingchen covered the globe. This wasn't a matter of catching up; it was a generational gap.

The next day, the headline of the Washington Post: "The Twilight of GPS—The End of American Positioning Hegemony."

August 1, New York. The award ceremony at the UN headquarters was underway, and the "Global Digital Inclusion Award" was being presented to a company for the first time. Su Chen did not attend in person, only sending a video.

On the large screen, Su Chen stood before a window in Shenzhen, with the setting sun over Shenzhen Bay behind him. He wore a dark blue suit, no tie, and his sleeves were casually rolled up.

"Twenty years ago, I was still in university. Back then, accessing the internet meant going to an internet cafe, which cost two yuan an hour. Every time I went, I had to bring two one-yuan coins and drop them into that iron box. I'd listen to the clinking sound of the coins falling, and then the screen would light up." He paused, "Today, every person on Earth can use a mobile phone to access the internet. Not because they are rich, but because the technology is cheap enough, and because we have spread it to every corner."

He faced the camera, his gaze calm and steady: "[Heavenly Court] is not a product; it is a bridge. It connects more than just networks; it connects opportunity, knowledge, and hope. This is the original intention of Xingchen."

Thunderous applause erupted from the audience. UNESCO Director-General Azoulay stood up, her voice slightly choked: "This is the greatest project in the history of human civilization."

That night, the number one trending topic on Twitter was "100% Internet Coverage," followed by an Earth emoji. Netizens' comments flooded in like a tide.

"In 1990, only 0.5 percent of people could go online. Today, it's 100 percent. Humanity has won."

"A Maasai child went online for the first time and saw a video of animal migration. Those were the animals right outside her home. But before, she couldn't see them."

"GPS can retire now. Xingchen's centimeter-level positioning is free, more accurate, and has global coverage."

"This is the true meaning of technology. Not to make the rich faster, but to give the poor internet access."

Late that night, in Kenya. The night sky over the Maasai Mara had no light pollution, and the Milky Way stretched across the sky like a glowing river. Naomi sat at the entrance of her mud hut, holding the tablet in her hands. The light from the screen illuminated her face. She was watching an English-teaching course, repeating words after the teacher on the screen.

Kipchoge walked over and sat down beside her, his aged eyes looking toward the starry sky: "Naomi, what are you learning?"

"English," she said. "I want to go to Nairobi to find Mama."

Kipchoge was silent for a while, then said: "Go. Go and see the world outside."

Naomi looked up, her eyes brighter than the stars in the sky: "Chief, is the world outside big?"

Kipchoge smiled, his wrinkles like a parched riverbed in the moonlight: "It's big. But no matter how big it is, you can use this—to see home."

He pointed at the tablet.

Naomi smiled and held the tablet close to her chest.