As Crassus's words faded, an instructor descended from the stage — a tall, broad man with a presence sharp enough to silence thought. His voice cracked through the air like thunder.
"Form a line!"
The students straightened instantly, boots clapping in unison against the marble floor. With a flick of his wrist, he activated his comm.
"Open holo room."
From beneath the stage, metal panels shifted and folded upward, revealing a wide glass capsule and a control desk. Light pulsed through it like veins, humming with power.
"This," the instructor said, his tone crisp, "is a holo room — a simulated testing environment. It will recreate any form of art you choose and project your performance here for evaluation. You will be judged on decision, awareness, and conviction."
He turned, eyes narrowing at Cairn. "You first. What discipline do you choose?"
Cairn straightened, chin high. "Art of War."
"Step inside," the instructor commanded.
Then he turned to Trisha. "You?"
"Art of Politics."
"Enter."
One by one, names fell like hammer strikes:
Melissa: Art of War.
Bastet: Art of Economics.
Helena: Art of Diplomacy.
Now only two remained — Eghosa and Amos.
The instructor's eyes flicked toward Amos first. "You?"
Amos slowly closed his children's book, setting it gently beside him. His silver hair caught the holo light as he spoke.
"Art of Philosophy," he said simply.
Even his voice sounded detached — calm, unbothered, like the world itself existed to entertain his curiosity.
"Step inside," the instructor replied, masking unease.
Then his gaze fell on Eghosa. "And you?"
Eghosa inhaled deeply. She knew five forms of art, but only one spoke to her understanding of people — the art that dealt not in weapons or wealth, but in the invisible threads between hearts.
"I choose the Art of Sociology — the study of racial dynamics and critical social theory," she said.
"Proceed."
---
The holo room sealed shut with a hiss. Transparent walls glowed blue, and above the arena, massive screens came alive — each displaying one student's chosen world.
"Prepare for synchronization," the instructor's voice boomed.
A mechanical tone followed:
> "Sequence initiation: 10... 9... 8…"
Eghosa settled into her chair, helmet in hand. She glanced sideways — Trisha wasn't beside her, but Amos was. He gave a faint, unreadable smile before lowering his own visor.
> "…3... 2... 1…"
---
The world dissolved.
Heat struck first — dry, bitter, pepperish air that stung her lungs. The horizon shimmered red under a half-dead sun. For a moment, panic seized her — until memory returned: simulation.
Information surged into her mind — who she was, what she commanded, what she must do.
Captain of the 12th Unit. Planet Solareth. Mission: evacuate all survivors after a solar flare.
Originally there had been thirty soldiers. Now twelve remained. Four rescue ships had come. Three were gone. Only hers could still fly — and it could carry just a quarter of the survivors.
She stepped out of her tent. The camp stretched before her — lines of worn shelters and hollow faces. Humans, Femicks, Zephons — three races once proud, now unified by suffering.
A soldier ran up and saluted. "Captain, we've scanned the entire region. These are all that remain."
She nodded, absorbing his words. Twelve soldiers. Thousands of civilians. One working ship. Two other captains stranded with her — one Fremick, one Zephon.
Eghosa exhaled. They'll die here unless we cooperate.
"Gather everyone," she ordered. "We're going to visit the other captains."
---
The journey was harsh. Ash and dust coated the plains, and the wind burned like sandpaper. But soon, the second camp came into view — tents, scattered survivors, and something strange: plenty.
Food and water were abundant here.
"How?" Eghosa whispered.
Then she saw it — a crashed Femick vessel, massive, its storage intact.
But something else caught her eye — the wary stares of those around her, even the humans.
"Blasters out," she ordered quietly.
Then louder: "I seek the one in charge."
Two figures emerged. The first — a towering Femick, green-skinned, with yellow bioluminescent eyes and a forked tongue. The second — a Zephon, his metallic skin glinting under the sun like polished steel.
"What do you want?" the Femick asked, his tone laced with suspicion.
"Cooperation," Eghosa said. "We all want the same thing — to leave this planet alive."
He scoffed. "You speak of cooperation, yet arrive with armed soldiers. Should I kneel before your mercy, human?"
Realizing the fear beneath his defiance, Eghosa lifted her hand — signaling her troops to lower their weapons.
"I'm not here to command you," she said firmly. "Only to work together. My ship can carry some survivors; your vessel has resources. If we fail to unite, we all burn here."
Silence. Then, unexpectedly, the Zephon spoke first. "I agree."
The Femick hesitated, then nodded.
And in that moment, Eghosa understood something deeper than strategy — the true art of sociology wasn't in theories or equations. It was in trust. The greatest adhesive that brings people together is trust in a singular cause.
---
Two months of relentless work followed.
They had been scavenging, salvaging, and risking life after life to repair the ships. Engineers worked without proper protection in the bleak atmosphere; mothers traded rations so children could eat. The cost was enormous: the casualty lists swelled, and attrition was merciless. At one brutal point, Eghosa watched the ranks of her soldiers thin until only four remained with her — the Fremick among them. Later, as storms and sickness took more, losses continued until finally, only Eghosa and the Fremick stood to lead the final boarding.
Still, the labor bore fruit. The repairs held. The ship's engines coughed to life.
Three weeks of final push and the vessels were ready. Thousands had been lost, but more had been saved — and those who died had done so knowing their loved ones were safe.
Eghosa remained until the very last child stepped aboard. She took one long look at the scorched world, let out a deep breath, and boarded.
The engines roared; metal rose from dust. A mechanical voice counted them out.
"Leaving simulation in 10... 9... 8... 7... 6..."