Lira had always imagined that the moment would feel heavier—louder somehow, like the crack of a new world opening. Instead, it arrived in perfect silence.

Her Companion Unit drifted into her bedroom just past dawn, its metal surface catching the pale morning light. It hovered at her eye level, humming with the steady, serene resonance that marked an alien core. A thin ring of blue light materialized around its equator.

Then the message appeared.

“You have reached the age of Contribution.”

Lira blinked once.
The day had come.

She sat up, brushing curls from her face as the CU projected the Directive into the air: a simple scroll of light, lines of clean procedural language carved into blue luminescence.

Citizen Lira Emsen
Age: 17.046
Status: Eligible.

You are now recognized as a Contributor to the United Rational Collective.
Compose a work of beneficial value to humanity:
– theory
– artwork
– invention
– argument
– philosophical insight
– social refinement

Your contribution shall enter the Hall of Records for evaluation.

Lira inhaled slowly. She knew this was coming—every child in the Collective did. At seventeen, one stepped from education into responsibility. Not through labor. Not through survival. But through creation.

Contribution defined adulthood.

Her CU swiveled silently, awaiting her reaction. She pressed her fingertips together, feeling the old familiar tightness in her chest. Everyone else always seemed ready when their Directive arrived. Rational. Focused. Composed.

Lira never felt like that.

Her mind didn’t line up in clean, logical paths like her peers’. Thoughts tumbled like storm-tossed waves. Emotions flashed bright and sharp before she could contain them. Teachers called it “pre-rational turbulence”—a phase most citizens left behind in childhood.

But Lira wasn’t sure she ever had.

She slid out of bed and stepped toward her window. Outside, the city shimmered in the morning light, towers rising like blades of glass, walkways threading between them like woven logic. Everyone had food, energy, shelter. No poverty. No corruption. No hidden crime. No inherited privilege. The alien infrastructure made injustice structurally impossible.

The Collective was fair.
Perfectly so.

And yet Lira often felt out of place inside its precision.

Her CU drifted beside her shoulder.
“Lira,” it said in a soft, genderless voice, “your heartbeat indicates anxiety. Would you like guidance through your Directive?”

She exhaled through her nose. “No. I… I think I need to feel this.”

There was a pause—as if the CU considered this.
“Emotional processing acknowledged. You may request assistance at any time.”

Lira smiled faintly. “I know.”

A distant chime echoed through the city. A transport lift glided along its track. Children with their CUs floated toward the learning halls. Market vendors arranged color-coded nutrient fruits along immaculate counters. Everything orderly. Everything precise.

Except her.

A sudden knock broke her thoughts.

“Lira?”
Kael’s voice carried through the door—steady, even, unmistakably rational. “I saw the Directive light in your window. May I come in?”

Lira opened the door.

Kael stood tall, composed, his posture almost geometrically correct. His CU rested at his shoulder in perfect symmetry. He had already passed his Contribution year—unlike Lira, Kael excelled at theory generation. His work on collective behavioral modeling had ranked in the top 2% of his cohort.

He offered a small smile. “Congratulations.”

Lira folded her arms across her chest. “You make it sound like a diagnosis.”

“It’s a milestone,” he corrected gently. “One that suits you. You feel deeply—that means your contribution might take the form of art. Or philosophy.”

“Or panic,” she muttered.

Kael’s smile didn’t falter. “Panic can be structured into insight.”

Lira rolled her eyes. “Only you would say that.”

He stepped inside. “I’m going to the Hall today. I can walk with you, if you want.”

Lira hesitated.
Part of her wanted to stay here, in this room where her emotions couldn’t be measured or voted on. But the Collective waited for no one—not out of cruelty, but because the future depended on each citizen playing their part.

She nodded.

They stepped outside, their CUs trailing like silent guardians. The walkway curved above the lower market district, offering a wide view of the city.

Lira paused as something caught her eye.

A flicker.

A momentary shimmer along the sky’s faint energy lattice—an anomaly in the alien field that powered everything. It was gone in a blink, like a glitch in the morning.

“Kael,” she whispered, “did you see—”

But Kael was looking ahead, already analyzing the day’s agenda.
Only her CU hovered closer, lenses narrowing with a faint, curious whirr.

“Record flagged,” Rho-7 murmured.
“Unusual event detected.”

The words sent a tremor down Lira’s spine.

The alien system was perfect.
Stable. Immutable.

It never glitched.

Ever.

And somehow, Lira felt—without logic, without evidence—that everything was about to change.

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