As we disembarked, a surge of unease welled within me, Father stopping me just outside the shuttle.
"Marcus."
"Hmm?"
He lowered himself, placing his knee to the floor. Before I could realise what was going on, he fished out a shiny object from his back pocket. I only caught a glimpse of it before he pinned it to the blazer of my uniform.
"That pin," he said, pointing. "I wore it when I was tested. So did Grandfather. Before him, it was Great Aunt Lydia's. Maybe it'll bring you more luck than it brought me."
A tightness gripped my throat, and my chest ached with each shallow breath. My mind churned with confusion. I forced my gaze to harden, mimicking Grandfather's unshakeable expression.
Father gave me a nod before standing back up, and soon after, we began our walk towards the arena. Its great doors loomed, not yet in sight.
-
The walk from the platform to the arena entrance was a gauntlet. Crowds pressed in from designated viewing areas. Vendors hawked everything from lucky charms to last-minute genetic predictors. The smell hit hard: fried protein, nervous sweat, ozone from a thousand recording devices all running hot.
"S-RANK PREDICTOR! KNOW YOUR CHILD'S FUTURE!" A man with an illegal neural scanner shouted. A line had formed despite the security guards watching.
"MEMORIAL HOLOS! REMEMBER THIS DAY FOREVER!" Another vendor, selling customised recordings for prices that would feed a family for a month.
The arena's entrance divided the crowds like water. Four gates: Legacy for military families like the Tiernans or the Chens, Merit for scholarship students like Alexei, General for regular testing and the Main Entrance for the spectators.
We joined the flow toward the Legacy Gate, our genetics scanned before we even reached the threshold.
"Tiernan family. One candidate. Marcus Tiernan, age fourteen. Proceed to Assembly Hall Seven."
The voice was heavily vocoded, ' protection' they called it. We kept moving.
The Legacy Gate was on the south side, opposite the main gate to the north. Merit Gate to the west. General Gate to the east. The Legacy door was ten meters tall, flanked by black columns carved with thousands of names. The names climbed by rank: C-grade at the bottom, then B, then A. S-grade names were huge, easy to read from across the plaza. Above B-Rank, each name listed their service, final rank, and how they died. Most said Killed in Action.
Above the archway, holographic projections cycled through the faces of the Eridani sector's most decorated families. The Chens. The Tiernans. The Nakamuras. The Santos.
The gate itself was crafted from the hull plating of the Stargazer, the first mech to break through Terran Dominion lines at the Second Battle of Procyon. Scarred metal that had survived void combat—now repurposed as a threshold.
One Hour.
Inside, the temperature dropped, and the roar muted to a distant thunder. The Legacy hallways were a shrine to genetics. The names that had been plastered at the top of the pillars were now displayed as holoportraits. Holograms of every S-Grade Cultivator from Epsilon Eridani lined the walls in order of testing date. Young faces, all children, all wearing different expressions ranging from terrified pride, arrogance, to expectation.
My eyes scanned the holoportraits. After a few moments of searching, I found Great Aunt Lydia. Third row, near the end. Only four came after her. One was Marshall Chen Hoaran.
"Don't stare," Mother whispered. "Bad luck."
Still, I couldn't look away. Had Lydia stood here? In this very same hallway? Feeling what I felt now? Had the pin brought her "luck", or was it that "luck" that got her killed?
The pin felt heavier.
We passed through the Legacy Gate hallways until we reached a door with "Assembly Hall Seven" etched in a golden placard above it. We stopped. I knew what was coming.
"Marcus," Mother touched my arm. "We need to go to our box. Legacy families have assigned seating."
"I know..." My voice broke, trembling exactly like Sara's did.
"We'll be in Section A-7. Look for us." Father said, his voice steady.
They hugged me. Mother whispered, but her words were lost beneath the roar of my heartbeat. Then they were gone.
I stared at the door and took a deep breath. Time stretched, eternity passed. Steeling my resolve, I pushed it open and entered.
Assembly Hall Seven was smaller than I'd expected. Six chairs sat around a low table. One wall was clear, showing the arena floor below. The other walls depicted forests and oceans on Eridani Prime before it became the industrial powerhouse it is today.
Five faces turned to look at me.
I recognised them all. David Huang paced by the window, his uniform already soaked with sweat. Maria Santos sat perfectly still, muttering what sounded like a prayer. Tom Bradley had found a waste bin to hover over, preparing for the inevitable. They were on the same prep academy circuit as me.
The other two I only knew by reputation. Yukiko Nakamura, whose mother tested S-rank thirty years ago. Ferdinand Cruz, from a minor military family that had been something of a rising star the past few decades.
"Barbaric, isn't it?" Ferdinand said to no one in particular. "Making us wait. Making us watch."
"It's tradition," Yukiko replied without looking away from the arena floor. "The spectacle matters as much as the testing."
Everyone went quiet. I knew she was right. But that didn't mean she was right.
Half an Hour.
Through the clear wall, I saw the arena floor below. Fourteen chambers: ten in a line for common candidates, three set apart with better lighting for scholarship students, and one raised on a gold-trimmed platform for legacy candidates.
One legacy pod. We'd each go alone while a hundred thousand people watched.
Time crawled. Conversations started and died fast. None of us wanted to talk, even to distract ourselves.
I touched the pin on my jacket. Warm from my body heat. Three generations had worn it to their testing. How many of them had felt this afraid?
A hush fell across the arena as the lights dimmed. Then a voice, not amplified by speakers but projected through the Ether itself, filled the Moirai Arena.
"Civilians and Citizens of the Federation! Sons and daughters of Earth! Today, we honour the gift bestowed upon us by the Enlightened."
A Holographic display blazed to life above the arena floor, showing the symbol of the Federation. A stylised icon of Earth surrounded by the wings of an ancient avian, long extinct. It must have been at least fifty meters in size as it spun clockwise.
"Three thousand years ago, we were bound to a single world. Weak. Mortal. Limited. The Enlightened saw our potential. In their benevolence, they gifted us the power to reach beyond and grasp the stars. They gifted us, Ether—"
The voice paused, letting the weight settle.
"Today, the children of Epsilon Eridani step forward to claim their inheritance. To discover what flows in their blood. To learn their place in the grand design of human destiny."
Spotlights moved, and flashes of light illuminated the testing machines in the centre, drawing every eye.
"Let the 2187th Genetic Assessment commence! First wave, approach your stations!"
A large metallic gate opened, and fifty teenagers filed out. Their uniforms were plain. No family crests. No expensive tailoring. Just the standard-issue testing uniforms provided by the state.
They looked so small, their forms swallowed by the immensity of the arena and the pressing weight of thousands of expectant eyes.
A group of ten split off from the main group as they headed to their designated testing machines; the rest waited in a holding area to the side.
"May the Ether recognise you, may your potential be revealed, and may you serve the Federation with honour!"
With a roar from the crowd, the testing had begun.
The first wave of Commons candidates shuffled like cattle to their pods. No names were spoken, only numbers assigned. Ten entered each pod at a time, maximising efficiency.
"Batch one, positions!"
The pods dilated. Ten fourteen-year-olds disappeared inside.
Thirty seconds passed.
F-GRADE
D-GRADE
F-GRADE
F-GRADE
D-GRADE
D-GRADE
F-GRADE
F-GRADE
D-GRADE
F-GRADE
Grades appeared above each pod in holographic light. F-Grade was dull grey, D-Grade white, C-Grade light blue.
Seven F-Grades. That was typical. They came out with heads down and shoulders slumped, some wiping at their eyes. A staff member led them away. The crowd didn't react. The testing was only beginning.
"Batch two!"
Thirty Seconds passed.
B-GRADE
C-GRADE
F-GRADE
D-GRADE
F-GRADE
F-GRADE
F-GRADE
D-GRADE
D-GRADE
F-GRADE
The first pod on the left glowed green. The letter B hovered above it. The kids stepped out and looked up to see their results.
The common section erupted. Cheering, whistling, people on their feet. A roar of celebration rolled through the general seating like a wave.
"B-GRADE FROM COMMONS!" someone screamed, and the chant caught: "B-GRADE! B-GRADE!"
The kid stood stunned, his eyes wide and lips trembling. His plain uniform suddenly looked like more. His family sat in the stands—I saw them, huddled together in the middle rows of the cheapest seats, clutching each other and crying.
Holographic displays appeared around the arena, updating to show the kid's name and genetic profile. Camera drones swarmed closer. Officials approached the platform, took the kid by the arm, and guided him off with firm but congratulatory hands.
B-Grade. From nobody. One in a million odds.
"There's one," David said quietly from our waiting room. "First B-Grade of the day."
"From Commons," Maria added. "The recruiters are going to fight over him."
Ferdinand made a sound. "Lucky bastard walks in, a no one, walks out a hero."
I watched the celebration below, jaw tight. For most people, a B-Grade meant everything. For us, it was just the standard. Anything less was failure. It felt unfair, but maybe it wasn't, not with odds like theirs. I didn't know if I was happy for him or jealous.
Down below, the celebration was already fading. The next wave of ten called. The machine reset. The spectacle moved on.
But that kid's life had changed forever. B-Grade meant opportunity, it meant choice, it meant mattering. The commons section still buzzed, hopeful. If one of theirs could do it, maybe another could too.
-
By batch ten, the pattern was clear. In 100 candidates: seventy-one F-Grades, nineteen D-Grades, nine C-Grades, one B-Grade.
"That's not right," Yukiko muttered, tapping at her datapad. "F-Grade percentage should be approaching ninety per cent for Commons testing. This..."
"Seventy per cent," Ferdinand finished. "Almost twenty per cent variance."
-
Batches fifteen through thirty confirmed it wasn't a fluke. The numbers remained steady at 74% F-Grade, 19% D-Grade, 6.9% C-Grade, and 0.1% B-Grade.
Where normal years saw nine hundred F-Grades per thousand, today was producing seven hundred and fifty.
The crowd hadn't noticed yet, too focused on individual results to see the pattern. But in the premium boxes, I could see officials conferring. Screens that usually showed betting odds now displayed historical comparisons.
"Maybe the machines are calibrated wrong," David suggested.
"All of them?" Maria shot back. "Simultaneously?"
-
Batch thirty-one produced two B-Grades in a single group. The crowd actually paid attention as rapturous applause rippled through the common sections. Parents crying with relief, their children would survive their service years.
-
By batch fifty, we'd seen five hundred candidates. The statistics glowed on Yukiko's pad:
[F-Grade: 381 (76.2%)
D-Grade: 87 (17.4%)
C-Grade: 28 (5.6%)
B-Grade: 4 (0.8%)
A-Grade: 0 (0%)]
"Previous decade commons average for comparison," she showed us:
[F-Grade: 89.3%
D-Grade: 8.2%
C-Grade: 2.3%
B-Grade: 0.2%
A-Grade: 0.001%]
"Every single rank is testing higher," Ferdinand said quietly. "The entire curve has shifted."
"It's only been fifty batches. The statistics will swing the other way." Yukiko explained, sounding sure of herself.
-
Batch seventy broke the arena's composure entirely.
C-GRADE
D-GRADE
B-GRADE
F-GRADE
D-GRADE
C-GRADE
F-GRADE
B-GRADE
D-GRADE
A-GRADE
Not white text. Not green text, but Gold! Burning gold letters, ten meters tall, blazed above the tenth pod.
The arena held its breath.
Then it detonated.
Not just one section. Everyone. The Commons exploded into absolute chaos. People screamed, voices raw, tears streaking faces as they climbed recklessly over seats to get closer. Merit students were wild with excitement, shouting themselves hoarse. Even the legacy boxes—proper, controlled, dignified legacy families—half of them stood, stunned and wide-eyed, gripping the rails.
"A-GRADE! A-GRADE! A-GRADE!" The chant wasn't organised. It was primal. A hundred thousand voices.
"TOMAS REACHAAAAAAARRIIII!"
The announcer's voice cracked.
"A-GRADE! FROM DISTRICT SEEEEEEVEN!"
The kid stood frozen on the platform. Thin and wiry. His testing uniform hung loose on his frame. Probably borrowed. His knees buckled. Someone caught him before he fell.
Holographic displays erupted across every surface. His face. His name. His genetic profile scrolling past in real time. District Seven, the industrial slums. The place where people went to disappear, not emerge as heroes. And he'd just tested A-Grade.
Security barriers snapped to life as the Commons surged like a living tide. Some wept so hard they could barely breathe; a woman in the front row collapsed, keening, hands pressed to her face. The air was electric, every heart pounding wild.
Recruitment officers ran onto the testing floor. Actually running, protocol be damned. Military uniforms, corporate suits and elaborate get-ups. They pounced on pod ten like predators. The opportunity to recruit a Commons A-Grade was just too much.
I couldn't tear my eyes away.
The kid, Tomas, bawled his eyes out. Security tried to guide him off the platform, but he couldn't walk. An officer picked him up and carried him toward the private halls, where his new life waited.
The commons were still screaming. Still chanting his name. Banners appeared from seemingly nowhere. They were hand-drawn and crude. They read:
|| DISTRICT SEVEN PRIDE.|| ||COMMONS CAN RISE.|| ||REACHARRI FOR LUMINARY.||
I watched Tomas disappear through the private entrance, surrounded by officers and officials, those who would promise him everything just to get in his good books.
It took a while for the crowd to settle. Testing started again. Ten more pods lit up, but most people kept watching the private entrance, still trying to understand what had happened.
F-GRADE
D-GRADE
C-GRADE
D-GRADE
C-GRADE
B-GRADE
A-GRADE
D-GRADE
F-GRADE
B-GRADE
The talking stopped.
Not gradually. Not a slow fade. It stopped. Like someone had cut the audio feed to a hundred thousand people at once.
For three full seconds, the Moirai Arena was silent.
Then someone laughed. A single, hysterical laugh from the commons section. Like their brain had broken trying to process what they were seeing.
Then the arena erupted again, but it felt different. Not just celebration. It was louder, more desperate, more confused.
"TWO! TWO A-GRADES! TWO!"
The chant was chaos. People didn't know how to react. This didn't happen. It couldn't happen. A-Grades were once in a decade in the Commons. Statistical miracles. And now two?! BACK-TO-BACK!?
"KEEEEEEEIKO MURAAAAAAA!"
The announcer's voice shook.
"A-GRADE! FROM... FROM DISTRIIIIIICT FOURRRR!"
A girl this time, she looked slightly older, maybe pushing fifteen. She stood on the platform with her hands covering her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
The recruitment officers were already sprinting. The same ones who'd just carried off Tomas. They hadn't even reached their seats before they had to turn around and run back.
In Assembly Hall Seven, no one spoke.
We all just stared.
"That's not possible," David finally said. "Statistically, that's not possible."
"Two A-Grades in one day?" Maria's voice cracked. "In the same testing centre?"
"In consecutive batches," Ferdinand added. His face was pale. "Back to back. What are the odds?"
Yukiko didn't answer. She was doing the math in her head, and whatever number she'd arrived at, it made her go very still.
The testing resumed for the next batch. But the energy in the arena had shifted. Hope had transformed into something else. It wasn't a celebration.
It was Expectation.