The summons came via a clipped, impersonal message on our datapads: Adept Tier, Squad 7. Report to Briefing Room Delta. 1400 hours sharp. There was no explanation, but there didn't need to be. A summons from Professor Everhart was an order from on high.
Briefing Room Delta was not a place for discussion; it was a chamber for instruction. It was a sterile, windowless cube of dark gray metal, chilled to a temperature that was just cold enough to keep you alert. The only light came from a massive holographic display that dominated the far wall, currently dormant but bathing the room and our faces in a cold, ambient blue glow. We stood in a loose formation, the five of us, our anxiety a silent, sixth member of the team.
Professor Everhart stood before the display, his back to us as we entered. He didn't turn. He simply waited for the soft hiss of the door sliding shut to signal our complete attendance. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture so ramrod straight he seemed carved from the same unyielding metal as the walls.
"Adept Tier," he began, his voice cutting through the heavy silence without preamble. He turned, his movements economical and precise. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, swept over us once. "We have a live-fire training opportunity."
The words hung in the air. I saw Drake shift his weight from one foot to the other, a flicker of raw excitement crossing his face before being suppressed into a mask of grim readiness. Beside him, Kara leaned forward slightly, her focus absolute, her entire being humming with the energy of a sprinter at the starting block. I felt a familiar, cold knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. A live mission, no matter how small, was a test. And after the crystal lattice—after his final, chilling threat—I knew I wasn't just on thin ice; I was standing on a frozen spiderweb over a chasm.
With a flick of his finger on a hidden console, the display behind him flared to life. A complex, multi-layered schematic of the academy's sub-levels materialized in the air. A specific sector three levels down, a blocky, isolated quadrant designated VAULT BLOCK C-7, was highlighted in a pulsing, cautionary amber.
"Two hours ago," Everhart continued, his tone as sterile as the room, "a monitoring system detected a minor breach in a low-level containment unit. The entity in question is a Tier-1 specimen, cataloged as 'Aether-Lich Spore.' It is a non-sentient, fungal network that feeds on low-grade ambient energy."
He brought up an image. It floated beside the schematic, rotating slowly. It looked like a sickly, glowing moss, a cancerous patch of pale greens and blues spreading in thin, vein-like tendrils across a sheet of rusted metal. The glow was not healthy; it was a parasitic, draining light.
"Ordinarily, a sanitation drone would handle this," Everhart stated, a sliver of academic disdain sharpening his voice. This was a janitorial task, not a mission. "However, the spore has rooted itself near a cluster of tertiary diagnostic conduits. A drone's standardized cleansing pulse would risk damaging the sensors. Therefore, you will handle it."
His gaze swept over us, calculating. "Your objective is surgical neutralization." The gaze stopped, landing, pointedly, on me. The weight of it was a physical force, pinning me in place. "You will descend to Block C-7, locate the spore's primary nucleus—its densest point of growth—and neutralize it using precise, low-impact energy application. The goal is to eradicate the specimen without disrupting the surrounding systems."
He zoomed the schematic in, highlighting the delicate, hair-thin lines of the conduits that webbed the area around the amber warning. They were packed together like nerves in a spinal column. "These are your civilian population," he said, his voice cold and clear. "This spore is your containment breach."
The echo of our last training drill was unmistakable and entirely intentional. It was a barb aimed directly at me.
"This is a routine contamination," he emphasized, the words flat and utterly serious. "It is a test of control, not power. The mission will be considered a failure if any significant collateral damage is detected in the surrounding conduits. Am I understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Professor," filled the room. Mine was a half-swallowed murmur.
Xander raised a hand, his glasses catching the blue light. "Professor, my passive scans have shown anomalous energy patterns in that sector all week. They're faint, but they don't match any known system diagnostics. Are we certain the entity is behaving as expected?"
Everhart's expression didn't flicker. He didn't seem annoyed or surprised; he seemed weary, as though explaining a simple concept to a child. "Your 'anomalies' are sensor ghosts from the outdated conduit shielding in the lower levels, Adept. A known and documented phenomenon. The spore is behaving exactly within its documented parameters. It is a simple organism following a simple directive: it feeds. Your directive is equally simple: cleanse it."
His dismissal was absolute. I risked a glance at Luna. She hadn't moved. She was staring at the glowing map, at the pulsing amber light, her hands clenched into small, white-knuckled fists at her sides. The word she had used in the refectory, the one that had unsettled us all so deeply, echoed in my mind, a stark and terrifying counterpoint to Everhart's cold data.
Hungry.
"You have one hour to prepare," Everhart concluded, stepping back as if the matter was already finished. "Drake, you are team lead. Your authority is absolute. Do not fail."
With a final, sharp tap, the hologram vanished. The room plunged back into its dim, sterile quiet, the hum of the machine silenced. We were left in the gloom with our orders. As we filed out, the word "routine" felt less like a reassurance and more like the label on a trap. We were walking into a test we thought we understood, completely unaware that a different test, one orchestrated by a ghost in the system, was already waiting for us.