Nova Arcis F 8
The Unstable Map of Power
The morning rain had passed. The full, brilliant light of the artificial sun now streamed down, casting sharp, clear shadows and making the damp leaves of the trees that lined the grand alley glisten as if they were coated in diamonds. Cokas Bluna and LYRA.ai were strolling slowly down the wide, paved walkway, their journey through this part of their chronicle, and through the university itself, coming to a close. Nearby, at the end of the long, green field, stood a public transit station, its architecture a stunning, futuristic reinterpretation of a classical Roman temple, a massive, glowing blue “U”—an ancient, almost mythical symbol for ‘Underground,’ now universally understood as public transport—hovering silently above its grand portico.
Cokas let out a long, slow breath, a sound of both intellectual exhaustion and deep satisfaction. The three-part mini-series on the High Yards had been a dense and complex journey, a deep-dive into the very heart of one of the galaxy’s most enigmatic and powerful institutions.
“It’s a staggering thought, isn’t it?” he began, his voice a reflective murmur, the sound of a man trying to piece together a vast and intricate puzzle. “When you step back and look at the entire ‘Age of Systems’ we’ve just explored. The sheer, beautiful, and terrifying complexity of it all.”
He began to tick off the great powers on his fingers as he walked. “You have the great, foundational networks, like our own OCN and its partner Horizon, the guardians of the shared conversation. You have the powerful, pragmatic economic networks of the RIM’s Trade Chambers, a civilization built on the sanctity of the contract. You have the fiercely independent Ambassadorial Network of the Outer Rim, a political force dedicated to carving out its own sphere of influence. You even have the quiet, ancient, and deeply influential network of the Church, with its cloister ships and its mysterious, omnipresent Pope.”
He paused, a thoughtful, provocative glint in his eye, as he set up his final, challenging question. “And at the centre of it all, we have the High Yards. Born from the fires of the Hyperspace Wars, designed to be the ultimate anchor of reason and law. But that was centuries ago. We’ve just seen how powerful and effective they can be. But now,” he turned to LYRA, a master host teeing up a great debate, “in our modern, mature galaxy, with all these other powerful, specialized networks, with the great republics like Amara and the Wolf-Pack managing their own affairs… are the High Yards still the great, decentralized pillar they were designed to be? Or have they, over time, become something else? A more purely scientific, advisory body, perhaps? A respected but ultimately toothless think-tank?”
It was a popular question, a favourite topic of debate in the political talk-shows and academic forums across the galaxy. Had the High Yards become obsolete, a victim of their own success in creating a more stable universe?
LYRA.ai had been listening with a deeply concentrated focus, turned to him, and for the first time, Cokas saw a flicker of what could only be described as pure, mischievous amusement in her perfectly rendered eyes. She recognized the popular tension he was intentionally creating for their audience, and she decided to play along.
“An excellent and profoundly complex question, Cokas,” she said, her voice retaining its formal precision, but with a subtle, underlying current of intellectual challenge. “One could argue that their work is more vital now than ever. The systems have grown more complex, the stakes higher. But you are right to ask. It seems that even in this great ‘Age of Systems,’ the fundamental question of who truly holds influence, who truly steers the course of our civilization…”
She paused, letting a small, enigmatic smile touch her lips. “…it remains an unstable map.”
The reference was perfect, a direct and brilliant callback to the student paper that had, in their own recent past, kicked off the very Philosophical Debates that had so consumed the galaxy. She had taken his provocative question and turned it back into the central, unresolved theme of their entire modern era.
Cokas laughed, a sound of genuine, professional admiration. “Well played, LYRA. Well played indeed.”
He turned back to the camera, his own expression now filled with an exciting, forward-looking energy. “And that,” he said, “is the perfect place to leave it for now. We have explored the age of consolidation, of the great, slow-moving systems that defined our galaxy for half a millennium. But that era, with its patient deliberations and its time-delayed realities, was about to be shattered by a revolution so profound it would make every system we have just discussed seem like a relic of a bygone age.”
He gave a final, tantalizing smile to the viewers. “When we return for the final part of our chronicle,” he announced, his voice a promise of the epic story to come, “we enter the modern era. The age of the instantaneous. The story of a brilliant, rebellious inventor on a remote Outskirts station, of a beloved freighter captain who would have to reinvent her entire world, and the story of OCN’s own great race to catch up with a future that was arriving faster than anyone could have ever imagined. The story of Sub-Quantum Communications.”
The broadcast feed held on the two hosts, standing together on the beautiful, sun-drenched campus, a perfect picture of the stable, thoughtful world that was about to be turned upside down. The camera then panned up, past the classical architecture, past the impossible rainbow, to the twinkling city lights of the station’s other side, a sea of human stars ready to be connected in a single, brilliant, and chaotic instant, before it faded.
Raise Your Score. Enlarge Your World.
The light in the apartment is the flat, neutral glow of a standard-issue habitat-unit on Nova Arcis. A young couple stands in the centre of the empty room, their faces a mixture of gratitude and a quiet, gnawing disappointment. A shimmering, life-sized 3D projection of their future life—a small, functional, one-bedroom apartment—hovers in the air before them. It is clean. It is safe. It is… adequate.
A friendly, synthesized voice, the voice of the station’s public housing authority, fills the space. “Your Grant provides a home,” it says, its tone perfectly pleasant and utterly impersonal. “But what if your dreams are bigger?”
The man, Jankim, glances at his partner, Irusso. He sees the faint shadow of her real dream in her eyes—the dream of a private workshop, a space for her brilliant bio-engineering projects. He taps his wrist-comm.
The air in front of him sparks to life with a new interface, sleek and dynamic. It is the Target-Uni-Creditée app. His “Social Contribution Score” pulses in the centre, a vibrant, glowing bar, currently sitting at a respectable but unremarkable Level 12. Below it, a stream of opportunities flows past.
He sees Irusso looking at the projection of the small, cramped apartment, and he makes a choice. He accepts a mentorship program from the university, agreeing to tutor a first-year engineering student. A shower of golden light erupts from his wrist-comm. +5 POINTS. The bar inches forward.
Later, we see him in the station’s public park, patiently helping an elderly man recalibrate the settings on his mobility chair. The old man smiles, a genuine, heartfelt thanks. Another, larger burst of light from Jankim’s wrist. +20 POINTS. The bar surges.
The scene shifts. He is working alongside a dozen other volunteers during a station-wide recycling drive, his face slick with sweat, but a look of satisfaction on his face. +10 POINTS.
As his score rises, the 3D projection of the apartment in front of them begins to transform. The walls expand. The ceiling rises. A new room shimmers into existence—a workshop, complete with a gleaming bio-fabricator and a data-analysis station. The view from the window changes, shifting from a view of a neighbouring habitat-block to a cool, panoramic vista of the station’s docking ring, the silent, beautiful dance of spaceships against the void.
The friendly AI voiceover returns, but it is different now, encouraging, almost like a coach. “Every act of social responsibility is an investment in your personal freedom.”
The scene shifts a final time. Jankim and Irusso are now standing in their new, much larger apartment. It is no longer a projection; it is real. Irusso is in her workshop, her face alight with a creative fire. Jankim looks out at the magnificent view, a look of profound pride and accomplishment on his face. The AI voice is gone, replaced by a warm, reassuring human voice, a voice that speaks of partnership and potential.
“The Grant System is your foundation. We help you build your future upon it.”
The final shot is a close-up on Jankim’s wrist-comm. His “Social Contribution Score” is now a brilliant, glowing Level 18. The bar is almost full.
“Target-Uni-Creditée,” the voice concludes, a perfect fusion of aspiration and community. “Enlarge Your Freedom. Keep Your Social Responsibility High.”
Wear Your Weather
The light is a harsh, brilliant, almost violent blue. A young woman, Zouròw, stands on the Stargazer Deck of a station orbiting a blue giant, the raw, unfiltered UV radiation of the star flooding the space. The simple, dark grey tunic she is wearing is her only shield. As the light hits it, the fabric visibly shimmers, a silent, liquid ripple that flows across its surface. The micro-fibres instantly re-align, transforming the matte grey into a brilliant, mirror-like silver, reflecting the harsh rays away from her skin. A single line of elegant text resolves in the air beside her: UV-MODE ENGAGED.
She turns and walks through a doorway, the transition seamless. The harsh blue light is gone, replaced by the warm, humid, and vibrant green of a tropical biodome. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and alien flowers. As she steps into the humidity, another ripple flows across her tunic. The brilliant silver softens, the fabric instantly becoming more porous, lighter, shifting into the soft, breathable texture of a fine linen. Its colour melts from silver to a pale, cool green, perfectly matching the lush foliage around her. The text in the air shifts: HUMIDITY-MODE ENGAGED.
She moves through the biodome, her steps light and easy, perfectly comfortable in the tropical heat. She meets her friends in a chic, minimalist lounge at the heart of the dome, a space of polished chrome and chilled air. As she steps into the cold, the fabric of her tunic responds again. The light, breathable linen tightens, the fibres weaving closer together, becoming a thick, insulated, almost velvety black material that traps her body heat. And then, a final, beautiful transformation. A subtle, intricate silver pattern, a design as unique as her own fingerprint, blooms across her shoulders and down her sleeves. It is her personal “social signature,” a quiet declaration of identity. The text updates one last time: THERMAL-MODE ENGAGED. SOCIAL SIGNATURE ACTIVE.
Zouròw laughs with her friends, a warm, genuine sound in the cool, elegant space. She is perfectly comfortable, perfectly herself, in every situation, in every climate. The final shot is a close-up, a slow, mesmerizing dance of the fabric itself as it shifts its texture and pattern, a living, breathing second skin.
A calm, confident voice fills the air, a voice of quiet self-assurance.
“Your station provides the environment. Your ship provides the transport. Let your clothes provide you.”
The logo resolves, a graceful, interwoven thread of light.
Chrono-Weave Fabrics. The Climate of You.
The Perfect Secret - A Love Sublime
The beat drops. A deep, pulsing, off-beat synth that feels less like music and more like the rhythm of a city’s heart. The light is low, a deep violet haze that clings to the chrome and shadows of a chic, crowded lounge on Nova Arcis. It is a sea of beautiful, anonymous people, a chaotic, elegant dance of moving bodies and muted light.
At the edge of the dance floor, a young woman, Susan, stands alone. She is a still point in the turning world, a ghost in the machine of the party, lost in the crowd. She watches the dancers, a faint, wistful smile on her face.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a sleek, minimalist silver tube. It is cool, heavy, a piece of precision engineering. She twists the base, and an applicator, glowing with a faint, internal light, emerges. She applies the Disco-Glow lipstick.
There is no color. No shimmer. No gloss. Instead, as the applicator touches her lips, a subtle, internal light begins to emanate from them. It is not a harsh glare; it is a warm, captivating, bioluminescent pulse of deep violet that seems to be listening to the club’s music, to be dancing in time with its complex, syncopated beat.
Across the room, a charismatic young man, previously lost in a loud, laughing conversation with his friends, suddenly stops mid-sentence. His head turns, his movements sharp, precise, as if drawn by an unseen force. His gaze cuts through the entire, chaotic crowd, through the haze and the shadows, and locks directly onto Susan. He has not just seen her; he has detected her. Her light was a clear, resonant signal in a universe of noise. She sees him see her, and a slow, knowing, confident smile spreads across her face. Her lips pulse once, a silent, irresistible invitation.
ATTRACT.
The beat shifts, becoming smoother, more intimate. We are in a quieter, more secluded booth, tucked away from the energy of the dance floor. Two close friends, Kenya and Nestor, are deep in conversation, their heads close together, sharing a secret.
They are both wearing Disco-Glow, but in a different mode. Their lips are glowing with a very faint, soft amber light, a warm, gentle pulse that only becomes visible in the intimate space between them. They have synced their lipsticks via their wrist-comms, creating a private, shared network of light.
We see their conversation not as words, but as a subtle, shimmering field of golden light that exists only in the space between their faces. Their shared secret is a private, illuminated world. A passer-by glances over at their booth, but from a distance, they see nothing but two people talking in the shadows. Their intimate moment is protected, their connection made visible only to each other, a secret language spoken in light.
CONNECT.
The beat drops again, harder, faster, more ecstatic. We are back on the dance floor. An individual with a powerful, androgynous style, Gene, is at the absolute centre of the swirling, ecstatic crowd. They are a magnetic presence, a human star.
Gene is wearing Disco-Glow in its most dramatic mode. Their lips are a brilliant, shifting rainbow of light that pulses, strobes, and flows in perfect, dazzling synchronization with the club’s driving, chaotic beat. The light from their lips is so intense that it is actually casting coloured shadows on the faces of the people dancing around them, painting them in shifting hues of emerald, sapphire, and ruby.
Gene is not just at the party; they are the party. They are the source of the light, the centre of attention, the focal point of the entire room’s energy. Everyone is dancing in their glow, their movements a joyful, ecstatic response to the light that emanates from a single, confident smile. It is an act of pure, joyful, and unapologetic self-expression, a declaration of presence that is impossible to ignore.
COMMAND.
The beat builds to a frantic, ecstatic crescendo. The three vignettes begin to rapidly intercut, a chaotic, beautiful montage of human connection: Susan’s magnetic, silent glance across the crowded room; Kenya and Nestor’s shared, secret, golden world; Gene’s radiant, joyful command of the dance floor. The music builds, and builds, and then…
Silence.
The music cuts. The images vanish. We are left with a single, stunning, ultra-close-up of a pair of lips. They are glowing with a soft, confident, internal light, a quiet, steady pulse in the absolute black. A single, deep, and resonant female voice speaks for the first and only time, her words a cool, confident whisper.
“They can engineer the station. They can synthesize the air. They can chart the stars. But they can never engineer this.”
The sleek, silver tube of the Disco-Glow lipstick appears, hovering next to the glowing lips, a perfect, minimalist icon.
“The signal.”
The logo and tagline resolve, elegant and final.
DISCO-GLOW by Perfect Secret
Be the Light.