This was supposed to be her first lecture.
Niri hadn't expected much—just a basic archaeology module. Probably a review of grid-mapping techniques, maybe a briefing on equipment safety. She had prepared herself for something dry and quiet. Safe. Something she could sit through without drawing attention.
Instead, she found herself walking into a storm.
The halls were packed. Dozens of students were moving in the same direction—quick steps, focused eyes, no idle conversations. Even the ones who normally drifted through corridors like they owned the place were walking with purpose now.
Niri moved among them unnoticed. She was still new enough that no one recognized her, and quiet enough that no one asked. That suited her just fine.
She kept her head low, gravity belt humming lightly along her hip as she walked. Just another student. Just another body.
But something in the way everyone moved told her this wasn't just any class.
"He's going to say it again," someone whispered ahead of her. "He always does."
"They banned the last lecture's archive," another replied.
"That's why we're here."
The closer she got to the upper dome, the louder the tension became.
There was no music. No announcement. No event registration.
Just hundreds of students from dozens of species, all gathering like it mattered more than credits.
She entered the lecture hall just before the doors sealed. The room was already beyond full. Students filled every row, leaned against every wall. Some sat in the aisles. Others hovered in sync-mode to projection relays. It was organized chaos, and no one looked away from the center stage.
She found an empty seat in the middle tier and clipped her belt into the side slot. The field adjusted around her as she sat, anchoring her in a planet's gravity that still felt off. Too light. Too artificial. But manageable.
Around her, voices hissed between groups.
"No holo-recordings."
"Council-issued blackout. It's real."
"Last time, someone walked out in tears."
"She never came back."
Niri folded her arms and sat back slightly. She didn't say anything. But her pulse had already started to quicken.
This was supposed to be her first lecture.
And now she was sitting in a dome filled with species older and larger than her, all waiting for one professor to say something dangerous.
The lights dimmed slightly. A soft blue pulse surrounded the main platform.
Then he entered.
Lu'Ka.
Tall. Composed. Broad-shouldered with sleek blue skin.. He wore the Academy sigil stitched into the side of his coat, and a datapad tucked into a magnetic clip on his left wrist. His expression was unreadable..
He didn't greet them. Didn't scan the crowd. Didn't offer preamble.
He simply stepped into the light and began to speak.
"There are names," he said quietly, "that do not appear in any authorized archive. Terms that are not classified—only avoided."
The screen above him blinked to life.
Fragments of stone, scorched steel plates, sections of wall etched with symbols that didn't fit any known linguistic structure. Broken patterns. Faded lines.
"They appear across dead zones," he continued. "On worlds without formal histories. In vaults sealed long before the Ascendancy began recording time. There is no single language root. No biological trace. No political claim."
He moved along the edge of the platform, voice calm and steady.
"We have no surviving DNA. No verified homeworld. No message. No name that all sources agree on."
Another shift in the projection.
A spiral. Carved into black stone. No color. No script.
Simple.
Recognizable.
Old.
"They have many names," Lu'Ka said, pausing for the first time. "Gateborn. Precursors. And, in some of the oldest, most restricted records—humans. A word almost no one dares speak aloud."
The silence in the room turned heavy.
No one moved.
Niri didn't breathe.
Lu'Ka stepped back from the image.
"They are not confirmed. Not accepted. And yet, across systems, they return. Again and again. Scattered symbols. Silent gates. Weapons no one understands."
Another flicker. A collapsed ruin, half-swallowed by a crater. No label. No context.
"And so I ask a question."
He looked out over the hall.
"If one of them survived—if one of them stood here today—what would you do?"
It was quiet for two seconds.
Then everything fractured.
"He's not serious."
"That word's banned. It's dangerous."
"This is reckless."
"He's testing us."
"They were extinct before the first relay stations were built."
"No. They vanished."
"Because someone wanted them gone."
The Grounx stood up from his seat. His voice carried even before he raised it.
"If one of them's alive, you don't wait. You don't ask it questions. You lock it down and strip it of everything until you know it's not a threat."
A ripple went through the crowd.
"That's assuming it's dangerous," a student near the top row muttered.
"You heard him. They left gates. Who knows what they were planning."
"Gates don't kill people. People kill people."
"They were apex."
"They were colonizers."
"They were wiped out."
"Or they walked away."
"They're a myth."
"They're not."
"They could be watching right now."
Niri sat still, hands folded in her lap.
Her eyes didn't move. Her shoulders didn't twitch.
But her heart was hammering.
This wasn't discussion. It wasn't theory.
It was fear.
And it was growing fast.
"They could look like anyone."
"They'd never reveal themselves."
"They wouldn't need to."
She heard the voices, each louder than the last.
She wasn't sure if she was scared or angry.
Maybe both.
Because they were right.
Not in the details.
But in the tone.
She was sitting in the middle of a species-level panic. And no one had confirmed anything.
Just one word.
Lu'Ka still hadn't moved.
But Niri couldn't ignore the ache building behind her ribs.
She didn't remember her own history. Didn't know what her people had done, or why they'd disappeared.
She only remembered waking up, half-dead in the sand.
She only remembered a glyph.
We remain.
A Lekari spoke softly, almost as if to himself. "If they're still out there, they've already heard everything we've said."
"Good," the Grounx said. "Let them hear it."
"That's why they disappeared," another student snapped. "Not because they lost. Because they saw what we were becoming."
Lu'Ka raised his hand.
The room dropped to silence like it had fallen off a ledge.
He let it stretch. Let it tighten around their throats.
Then he spoke.
"One word. A name. Nothing confirmed. And we nearly start a civil war in the heart of the Academy."
He turned slowly, eyes sweeping the rows.
"You've proven the point."
He paused. Not to provoke. Just to give space.
"This is your assignment. No structure. No collaboration. Just this question:
If a Gateborn were here—now—what would you do?"
He turned and walked away.
"Dismissed."
No one moved.
Niri stood eventually. She didn't rush. Didn't look anyone in the eye.
She followed the flow of bodies into the corridor.
But her mind didn't follow.
The voices came back quickly.
"I'm not answering that."
"He wants us to confess something."
"This whole thing should be flagged."
"He said nothing. And still said everything."
"They're real."
"They're dead."
"They're hiding."
"They're here."
Niri walked faster.
Not out of panic.
Just to breathe.
By the time she reached her dormitory wing, the voices were gone.
The hallway lights were dimmer here. The silence deeper.
Her door recognized her ID. Opened with a soft hiss.
Inside, the room was untouched.
Same bed. Same desk. One interface orb spinning at the center of the ceiling like it always did.
She walked in and closed the door behind her.
Kicked off her boots.
Dropped the belt.
Sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor for a long moment.
Then she looked up.
The orb hovered. Passive. Unconcerned.
She walked over and tapped it.
It rotated, realigned, and kept spinning.
It hadn't seen the fear.
Hadn't heard the word.
Didn't know how close the room had come to tearing itself apart.
Niri exhaled, sat back, and muttered under her breath.
"We're so messed up."
The orb made no sound.
And she didn't expect it to.
Because now she knew—
One word was enough to break the peace.
And she still didn't remember why.