I stood in the crowd with the other students, waiting.
The headmaster of Sector 9 Academy, Darius Percival, was supposed to give his big welcome speech. Sector 9's Academy was only a Tier 3 — bottom of the barrel. But with my D– rank, I hadn't exactly earned options. I'd barely scraped past the minimum threshold. The cutoff was E. Still, I guess I shouldn't be complaining. Technically, I was lucky to be here at all.
I tried not to fidget. Tried to look like I belonged.
Then the Headmaster stepped onto the podium. He was tall, Broad-shouldered, black hair which was cut military style. The kind of man who didn't just expect attention — he claimed it.
"If you're waiting for me to welcome or congratulate you," he said, voice grim "you're sorely mistaken."
"You're not here to make friends. You're not here to enjoy your time. You're here to prepare — for what comes next. A chance to earn your spot in the Reclamation Squad and support humanity with reinhabitation"
"Yes, there's glory in joining the Reclamation Squad. But many of you won't live to see it."
"If you want even a chance at surviving, let alone thriving, then listen. Study. Fight. Learn. What you absorb here could be the difference between living… and being buried in something that used to be human."
I swallowed hard. Maybe it was the truth. But that didn't mean I liked hearing it out loud.
------
The ceremony didn't last much longer. No applause. No welcome packs. Just a quiet system chime that signaled the crowd to disperse.
"Typical."
Sector 9 might've called itself an academy, but the reality felt closer to a holding pen with some books thrown in.
Lyra filtered out with the rest of the D and D– students, funneled into narrow side halls. The better-ranked recruits were directed through glass elevators toward the Upper Dome — where Tier 2 electives and advanced simulators lived. She didn't even look up. What was the point?
[Ping – Class Allocation Confirmed: Uploading to Personal Interface...]
Her schedule flickered to life across her visor. The hologram was glitchy at first — the kind of interface overlay you'd expect in a broken vending machine.
📋 ACADEMY SCHEDULE: LYRA KADE [RANK: D–]
CORE MODULES (Non-negotiable):
Hazard Navigation Basics
Psychostability Conditioning I
System Obedience and Uplink Law
Digital Memory Reassembly: Foundational Protocols
Environmental Suit Prep (Shared Sim Zone)
ELECTIVES AVAILABLE: [ 1 SLOT ALLOCATED ]
⛔ Terraforming Techniques (Merit too low)
⛔ Combat Tactics: Swarm Entities (Rank C+ required)
⛔ Drone Interface (ARC Protocol Access needed)
⛔ Emotional Sync Compression (Requires Mental Stability Score ≥ 85%)
✅ Eligible: Intro to Reclamation Botany
✅ Eligible: Reclaimed Literature: Voices Before the Flare
✅ Eligible: Crafting from Salvaged Materials (shared workshop)
[SELECT ELECTIVE] — Deadline: 03:00 ST Tomorrow
She stared at the display. Then again.
One elective. And not a single one related to field combat or system control.
She scrolled, hoping something had glitched. But no — the options were locked, red-texted, system-stamped.
Someone brushed past her. Their schedule shimmered into view — a C-rank. Five electives. One of them highlighted: Advanced AI Interface with Tactical Override.
Of course.
They get to command drones. I get to learn how not to die by accidentally touching a vine that screams.
Lyra sighed and closed the interface.
She'd have to make the most of what she had. One slot. One chance.
And soon — one ability.
------
The first class of the day was System Obedience and Uplink Law.
I picked a seat near the back — easier to observe from there. Not just the lecture, but the people.
Even in Sector 9 Academy, a Tier 3 scrap-heap meant for ranks D through E, you could already see the cliques forming. Rank wasn't the only thing that mattered. Family name, merit inheritance, internal sponsorships — they all had a way of clinging to people like invisible medals.
Some of these students had clearly brought more than just brains with them — probably donated merit caches or backdoor recommendations. Their uniforms were newer. Their interfaces didn't glitch. Their posture said they believed they might still be special.
Compared to the elites in Tier 1, sure — they were nothing. But down here at the bottom, even crumbs still formed hierarchies.
I'd barely been seated two minutes when a shadow fell across the chair beside me.
"This seat taken?" The voice was neutral, female. Crisp but not pushy.
I glanced up. A girl — tall, short-cropped hair, pale visor band already synced. Her uniform was standard issue, but her posture wasn't. She moved like she'd been taught not just to walk but to arrive.
I shrugged.
"Nope. Go ahead."
She slid into the seat without further comment, pulled up her interface, and started swiping through the day's modules. Efficient. Quiet. The kind I didn't mind sitting next to.
Two rows ahead, someone wasn't nearly as subtle.
"—I mean, it's Tier 3. Can you believe my father let them stick me here? He said I needed to learn 'resilience' or whatever. Something about being too insulated. Tch. Like I'm going to stay here more than a trimester."
I didn't need to look to know who it was. His voice had the kind of confidence you could only inherit — like merit came baked into his DNA.
"Once the academy rankings are recalibrated, my transfer's as good as done. Sector 7's already flagged me for evaluation."
His friend mumbled something indistinct — probably agreement laced with envy. The speaker laughed. It was smooth and practiced, the kind of laugh that always landed in social simulations.
"Don't get me wrong — I get why some people belong here. Just… not me."
I rolled my eyes, subtle enough that only my seatmate might've noticed.
She didn't say anything.
But I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
The lights dimmed overhead, casting the room in a sterile blue-white hue. The air pulsed once — the subtle electromagnetic shift that meant a system instructor was syncing in.
A thin beam of light threaded down from the ceiling, slowly sculpting itself into a humanoid form. The simulation texture shimmered as Instructor Vell rendered in full: mid-50s, sharp features, long coat that looked more military than academic. His eyes flickered ever so slightly — not from age, but from computation.
He was AI, but not one of the friendly domestic-grade models. Vell was an AI construct, built from the personality overlays of four former legislators and a battle-hardened Systems ethicist. It showed.
He didn't speak right away. Just scanned the room.
"Welcome," he finally said, voice low and resonant, with the cadence of someone who knew they'd be listened to — or feared.
"This is System Obedience and Uplink Law."
His gaze swept the room. His eyes landed briefly on Lyra — no flicker of recognition. Just assessment. Cold and automated.
"Before we begin," he said, raising a hand, "a reminder."
A pulse rolled through the room, and the walls flashed with a message in system-blue:
Protocol Zero: The survival of the species outweighs the will of the individual.
"This principle is not theory. It is law. It is why 6.8 billion were left behind."
Silence.
"The System is not interested in justice. It is interested in continuity. It is interested in preservation. You are here because someone, somewhere, decided your consciousness was still worth investing in. Don't make them regret that."
Lyra's visor pinged. A system note logged the lecture start.
In the seat beside her, the girl still hadn't flinched. Ahead, the privileged boy finally shut up.