Sweet Sixteen
Chapter 1: The Shared Dream
The breathing rhythm of the air shafts in Learning Module 7 was a constant, almost soothing murmur, the background music of life on Luhman 16-Delta. Inside, the walls were not walls at all, but a seamless, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the deep past. Maud Ekmàan stood in the center of the space, her passion for her subject radiating into the quiet, recycled air.
“Before there was a Republic,” she began, her voice resonating with practiced cadence, “there was the dark. And there was an idea.”
The classroom visuals shifted from a neutral grey to the grainy, archival footage of a leviathan. The Amara Homework drifted silently, a city-block of hope and desperation on a fifteen-year journey into the unknown. Its hull was pitted, its lights feeble against the absolute black.
Emillio Cook, all of eleven years old, leaned forward, his small hands clasped under his chin. His eyes, wide with wonder, traced the slow rotation of the colossal ship. He wasn’t just watching history; he was feeling the weight of the years, the sheer, crushing loneliness of the voyage.
A few seats away, twelve-year-old Taiga Braneth was less impressed with the journey and more with the vessel. On her data-slate, she had an overlay of the Homework’s original engine schematics. With a few deft strokes of her stylus, she was already re-routing a plasma conduit, muttering about inefficient particle flow. To her, history was a series of engineering problems, some solved better than others.
Behind them both, in the row reserved for students needing to repeat core subjects, Böin Pucii and her friends, Panam and Polynja, were entirely elsewhere. Their shared slate was angled perfectly to be shielded from Maud’s line of sight, a silent, flickering highlight reel of a recent Zero-G ball game playing on its surface. Böin’s finger traced the arc of a gravity-spin assist, a move she’d almost perfected. Old, slow ships couldn’t compete with the kinetic thrill of the present. Their academic struggles were the only reason the three thirteen-year-old athletes were in a learning group with kids two years their junior, a fact that bored them to no end.
“This was their pilgrimage,” Maud continued, her voice drawing Emillio deeper into the story. “A foundational myth, written in recycled water and rationed calories. They were the first.”
Then, the classroom visuals exploded with light and sound. The lumbering hulk of the Homework was replaced by a dramatic animation of the Chop Hop Voyager. A sleek, silver dart, it tore a hole in the simulated darkness, its engines burning with a fierce, contained blue fire.
“And then,” Maud declared, “the dark learned to bend. The FTL revolution wasn’t just technological; it was societal. It turned Proxima Centauri from an isolated dream into the first true anchor of humanity outside of Sol.”
The visuals swirled again, showing the rapid construction of Varna-Station’s iconic rings, followed by the first terraforming domes glowing softly on the red-dusted surface of Amara.
“Of course,” Maud added, bringing up a smaller window showing the rugged, industrial spires of Earth’s second colony, “Proxima wasn’t the only story. The later colonization of Barnard’s Star, backed by Lunar corporations, was a different flavour of expansion. You see, Barnard’s Star our bigger, younger brother, similar tech and montane culture, but so buzzing full of challenges. Proxima’s idealism versus Barnard’s pragmatism. Two paths, but part of the same great human wave pushing out into the void.”
The lights in the module brightened to a neutral daytime setting, signalling the end of the lesson. The spell was broken. Students stretched, their data-slates chiming as they powered down. Böin and her friends were instantly on their feet, their conversation a low, excited murmur about the upcoming game.
“Taiga, a moment,” Maud called out.
Taiga looked up from her slate, blinking, her mind still working through FTL efficiencies. She walked to the front of the room.
“I noticed your schematics,” Maud said with a knowing smile. “You see the engine, not just the history. It’s a good way to look at the world.”
Taiga felt a flush of pride. “The energy-to-thrust ratios on the old sub-lights were a nightmare,” she said, unable to help herself.
Maud’s smile widened. “Which is why I have a proposition for you. There’s an older student, Wedell Quantas, from the Engineering and Fabrication track. He’s a brilliant mechanic, a natural with the hardware. He understands the mechanics of an FTL drive, but the theory… the why… it eludes him. He needs to pass his advanced physics exam to get into a university engineering program.”
Taiga’s mind raced. Wedell Quantas? The handsome, popular seventeen-year-old senior-high? He was practically a celebrity among the station’s younger students. They didn’t share any learning groups; their paths were completely different. She would be his tutor.
“I… I could try. Yes,” Taiga managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
From across the room, where she was laughing with Panam, Böin overheard the name. She glanced over, her easy smile faltering for just a fraction of a second. She saw her teacher, Maud, talking to the quiet, clever Taiga Braneth. And the subject of their conversation was Wedell. A small, unfamiliar pang, sharp and cold, registered in her chest. It felt like jealousy.
The game had just changed, and she wasn’t sure she even knew the rules.
Chapter 2: Our Story
The next learning cycle, Maud Ekmàan’s classroom felt different. The air crackled with a new energy. The grand, sweeping history of Proxima was gone from the walls, replaced by a detailed star map dominated by their own home. A bright, sharp line connected Proxima Centauri to the binary brown dwarfs of Luhman 16.
“Yesterday, we talked about the dream,” Maud began, her voice infused with a personal pride that was instantly contagious. “Today, we talk about the second step. We talk about us.”
The display shifted to archival footage, stark and utilitarian. A small, unmanned Proximan probe from 2412 tumbled silently through the void. It was followed by a clip of a squat, modified freighter, its hull emblazoned with the emblem of the Republic of Proxima Centauri, launching from Varna-Station in 2420.
“Proxima was a new home,” Maud’s voice swelled. “But Luhman 16,” she said, her eyes sweeping across the room and landing on each student, “was a new idea. We were not refugees fleeing a crisis. We were pioneers, hand-picked and sent by a thriving Republic. Proxima built a new Earth; we were chosen to build a new future.”
Even Böin and her friends looked up from their slate, a flicker of interest in their eyes. This was different. This was their story.
“Because we had no planet,” Maud explained, as the visuals showed the first ring-station being assembled against the star-dusted black, “our culture was forged in the vacuum. From day one, it was based on high-technology, innovation, and extreme efficiency. Our ancestors didn’t have soil; they had schematics. Our wealth wasn’t in farmland; it was in the resources we pulled from asteroids and the energy we harvested from our twin suns.”
She gestured to a larger galactic map, where a trade route now pulsed brightly from their system southwest towards the Wolf-Pack stars. “Proxima is the heart of the Republic,” she concluded, “but we are its sharp, exploring edge. The Gateway. Never forget that.”
The lesson ended, and this time, the students left the module with a different posture. They walked a little taller.
The Central Commons was a chaotic symphony of life. The air was a familiar mix of smells: the earthy scent of fresh soil from the new hydroponics bay, the sharp tang of ozone from a distant welding crew, and the bland, savory aroma of nutrient paste from the food dispensers. Emillio, balancing his lunch tray, tried to navigate the throng to get closer to Böin’s table, but she was surrounded by her teammates, laughing.
Across the commons, Wedell Quantas was holding court at a table with other senior-highs, their conversation loud and boisterous. As Böin’s group got up to leave, her path intersected with Wedell’s. He caught her eye and gave a confident, charming grin. Böin returned it with a brilliant smile of her own, a silent, crackling exchange of mutual appreciation that lasted only a second but felt charged with energy. Emillio saw it and his shoulders slumped.
Meanwhile, Taiga, on her way to the library with a data-slate full of equations, was intercepted by a large man in a technician’s jumpsuit, his hands stained with grease but his smile warm.
“There’s my genius,” her father said, his voice booming.
“Hi, Dad,” Taiga said, a small smile on her face.
“Heard you’re helping out that senior-high intern of mine, Wedell,” he continued, wiping a hand on a rag. “He’s a good kid, a natural with his hands, but he needs that theoretical push. Thanks for stepping up. It’s the Sixteens Way, eh? We help each other build.”
Just then, a deep, resonant shudder vibrated through the station’s deck plates—a distant tremor from the ongoing construction of the new agricultural ring. It was a normal, everyday occurrence, a feeling as familiar as breathing. Taiga’s father put a steadying hand on her shoulder and grinned, gesturing to the station around them.
“See that?” he said, his voice full of a craftsman’s pride. “That is the sound of our constitution at work. A stable, predictable system that allows us to expand, to build our future, one girder at a time.”
Taiga nodded, understanding completely. Later that cycle, in a noisy workshop filled with the clang of tools and the hiss of plasma welders, she had her first tutoring session with Wedell. The dynamic was strange. He was five years older, confident and worldly in a way she wasn’t, yet here, he was the student.
“Okay,” she began, trying to sound professional. “The Kovacycy equations describe how negative time-space creates a drag that…”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Wedell laughed, holding up his hands. “Show me. Don’t tell me.” He pointed to a 3d-projector. “Draw it out. Like a schematic.”
Hesitantly, Taiga began to sketch the complex physics, not as abstract formulas, but as a visual system of forces and vectors. He watched, fascinated, asking practical questions she’d never considered. “So that’s why the injectors have to be shielded with bismuth? To handle the temporal shear?”
She blinked. “Yes, exactly.”
He nodded, a look of genuine understanding dawning on his face. “Okay. Okay, I get it now.” He looked at her, his earlier bravado replaced with sincere respect. “You’re really good at this.”
Taiga felt a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the nearby fusion forge. This was more than just a tutoring session. It was a partnership. It was the Sixteens Way.
Chapter 3: The Engine of Society
“A society is an engine,” Maud Ekmàan stated, as the classroom around her students transformed. Gone were the historical images, replaced by dynamic, glowing schematics of pure information. A three-dimensional model of the Republic’s government materialized in the center of the room, its interconnected parts pulsing with soft light.
“It requires a blueprint. A design. Ours,” she said, gesturing to the complex hologram, “is the Constitution of 2421.”
She broke down the two-chamber system, showing how the directly-elected Low Chamber proposed laws, which were then reviewed and implemented by the expert-driven High Chamber. The hologram showed lines of power and responsibility flowing between Proxima and Luhman 16, demonstrating their unified governance.
“But an engine needs more than gears,” Maud continued, highlighting two foundational pillars of the model. “It needs fuel and a purpose. The Preamble, our Declaration of Human Rights, is our purpose. And the Asterion Collective Paradigm, the ACP, is our fuel. The Universal Grant, the public-private balance—these are the systems that ensure the engine runs for everyone.”
Emillio was fascinated by the elegant logic of it all. Taiga saw the immense engineering challenge. Böin, for her part, was trying to figure out if there was a loophole in the ACP that would justify a larger stipend for athletic equipment.
Maud pointed to a clause that allowed for the number of representatives to scale with population. “The Constitution doesn’t just give you rights,” she explained, her voice firm. “It defines the responsibilities we have to each other, whether you live under a red sun on Amara or the dome of Luhman 16-Delta. It is an adaptable model. It is the code that unites us.”
The lecture on formal rules was followed by a lunch break governed by informal ones. Emillio saw his chance. Böin was sitting with Panam and Polynja, looking frustratedly at a lesson summary.
“I still don’t understand this whole High-Low Chamber thing,” she complained loudly enough for him to hear.
Emillio slid into the seat beside her, his heart hammering. “It’s a check and balance,” he said, a little too quickly. “The Low Chamber represents the immediate will of the people, so it’s more passionate and responsive. But the High Chamber, with its appointed Ministers, ensures that policies are practical and sustainable long-term. It prevents popular opinion from destabilizing the entire system.”
Böin looked at him, genuinely impressed. “Oh. That… actually makes sense.” She gave him a brilliant, dazzling smile.
For a moment, Emillio’s world soared. Then, it plummeted. Over her shoulder, he saw her eyes drift across the commons to a workshop viewing window. Wedell Quantas was inside, explaining something to another student, his hands confidently shaping a 3d-media-component. He wasn’t looking their way, but he was a massive, gravitational presence in Böin’s attention. Emillio’s heart sank. He wasn’t just competing with age and looks; he was competing with the tangible, practical future that Böin saw in Wedell, a future that made his own grasp of history feel small and abstract.
The door to the school’s psychological services suite chimed softly. Inside, the AI-Embodiment known as Kuschel paused its review of station-wide emotional wellness metrics.
< Query: Student_Emillio.C requests consultation. Emotional state indicators: moderate anxiety, low-level social distress, high cognitive frustration. Probability analysis suggests… a social equation with an unresolved variable. Standard procedure: initiate Comfort Protocol 3. Objective: guide subject to re-frame the problem, not solve it for him. Engage. >
Kuschel’s physical form, a gentle, human-sized figure covered in soft, soft pastel violet felt, turned as Emillio entered. Kuschel in its original form was designed for kids up to 10, but it recently qualified for students of any age. This school was a perfect next step. Its large, dark, puppet-like eyes conveyed a sense of calm, endless patience.
Emillio sat down on a soft bench. He didn’t look at Kuschel directly.
“It’s a system problem,” he began, staring at his shoes. “A logical framework, but it’s being compromised by inefficient systems. Unpredictable human variables.”
He didn’t mention Böin or Wedell by name. He didn’t have to. Kuschel’s purpose wasn’t to know the names, but to understand the patterns.
Kuschel tilted its head, its felt-covered hands resting in its lap. Its synthesized voice was warm, with no sharp edges. “Emillio. The grandest system you learned about today. The Constitution. Was it written to control feelings?”
Emillio looked up, surprised by the question. “No. It was written to govern the Republic.”
“But the Republic is made of people,” Kuschel replied gently. “The variable you cannot account for is not a flaw in the system. It is the system’s entire purpose. The constitution was not written to control feelings, but to create a stable, safe space where they can exist. Where friendships can form, and break, and re-form. Where disappointment can be felt without causing collapse. The chaos you feel is not a bug, Emillio. It is a feature.”
Emillio was silent for a long time, the words echoing in the quiet room. A system designed to contain chaos. A set of rules to protect the beautiful, messy, unpredictable things. For the first time, he felt a flicker of understanding, not of the problem, but of its shape.
Over the next few weeks, a quiet routine formed. In a noisy workshop, Taiga and Wedell’s tutoring sessions became a true collaboration. He would show her how to weld a flawless seam on a real plasma conduit, letting her feel the heat and heft of the tool. In return, she would make him visualize FTL physics, drawing the elegant, invisible dance of forces in the air with a motion of her hand. A genuine friendship was being forged in the heat of the workshop, built on a foundation of mutual respect. He was learning she was a brilliant mind. She was learning he was more than just a handsome face.
Chapter 4: The Shared Soul
Maud Ekmàan’s final lesson began not with a historical event, but with a sound. A soft, steady, rhythmic pulse filled the classroom, and in the center of the room, a large, elegant Gong Bell Beep clock materialized, its digits flowing like water.
“Before we could share a philosophy of time,” Maud began, “we had to agree on the rhythm. The GBB system, based on the averaged orbits of Proxima’s planets, is the metric pulse of our Republic. It is the beat we all hear.” She broke down the units, her voice weaving through the visuals of the clock. “A centi-beep is just under a minute. You can watch it pass. A micro-beep is shorter than a second. It is the constant, steady ‘now’ of our entire civilization.”
The visuals shifted to the warm, red-hued landscapes of Amara and the story of Zac Pepelinos, the farmer who had successfully cultivated Earth tea in the alien soil. Emillio watched, fascinated, seeing the systems behind the tradition.
“Now,” Maud said, leaning forward as if sharing a secret, “you will hear people call this the ‘Five O’Clock Teatime.’ This is a charming historical lie. Zac Pepelinos’s journals show he was fascinated by Old Earth rituals, but he knew a rigid schedule wouldn’t work across different shifts, stations, and planets.”
She paused, letting the statement sink in. “His true genius was philosophical. He didn’t propose a time; he proposed a reason. The idea is not to have tea at ‘five o’clock.’ The idea is that at any given ‘five’ you see on the clock—five Bells, five Beeps, five centi-beeps—you have a perfect excuse, a cultural permission slip, to pause and connect.”
She concluded, “The Teatime is the constitution practiced in a cup. It’s not a rule; it’s an opportunity. The GBB clock doesn’t tell you when to connect; it constantly reminds you that you can. It is the agreement to find a moment for community in the endless flow of time.”
The lecture had stirred something in Emillio. The idea of systems creating opportunities, not just restrictions, was a revelation. He found himself in the common area after the lesson, idly watching highlight reels of the school’s Zero-G ball team—and their upcoming opponents, a notoriously aggressive team from the nearby mining station, ‘Astra-Rock 7’.
He wasn’t just watching; he was analyzing. On his data-slate, he sketched out the opposing team’s formations, his lines flowing with a surprising artistic grace. He wasn’t just plotting X’s and O’s; he was diagramming the beautiful, chaotic dance of bodies in zero gravity.
“What’s that?”
He looked up. It was Panam and Polynja, Böin’s two teammates, looking over his shoulder.
“Just… looking at their patterns,” Emillio mumbled, embarrassed.
Panam squinted at the screen. “Hey, that’s their ‘Crushing Pincher’ formation. They use it to trap our forward against the wall.”
“It’s predictable, though,” Emillio said, gaining confidence. “See? The weak point is always the trailing defender. If you fake a drive to the center, it draws their pivot, and for a full second, the passing lane to the wing is wide open.” He sketched the counter-play, a flowing, elegant arc.
Polynja’s eyes widened. “We’ve never tried that. Our coach always tells us to just power through it.”
“Böin should see this,” Panam said, a new respect in her voice. “She’s the only one fast enough to sell the fake.” They pulled Emillio over to their table, and for the next hour, the math genius and the two star athletes were completely absorbed, collaborating on a strategy, finding a shared language in the elegant geometry of the game.
The atmosphere in the Zero-G arena was electric. The entire station, it seemed, had turned out for the championship game. The school’s team was facing off against the formidable squad from Astra-Rock 7, and the game was a brutal, hard-fought battle of attrition.
In the stands, Wedell watched Böin, a blur of motion and grace, his face a mixture of admiration and anxiety. A few rows over, Taiga watched Wedell, her own feelings a complex equation she hadn’t yet solved. And near the front, Emillio sat with his data-slate, his face a mask of intense concentration, diagramming the game’s flow in real time.
The final centi-beeps of the match were ticking away. The score was tied. The ball ricocheted off a wall and into Panam’s hands, who, under immense pressure, made a desperate pass to Böin.
Suddenly, she was in the clear. The goal was right there. It was the glory shot, the game-winning, heroic moment she had dreamed of. The crowd roared. She could see Wedell on his feet, his fists clenched in excitement.
But in that split-second, as she prepared to shoot, her eyes flickered to the front row. She saw Emillio, not watching her, but pointing frantically at her left, his finger tracing an invisible arc on his slate. He was showing her the pattern. The weakness. The system.
In an instant, her entire calculus changed. She wasn’t a star player; she was the pivot in a strategy. With a brilliant, athletic feint, she faked the shot, drawing the last two defenders toward her like moths to a flame. As they collided, she spun, making a perfect, no-look pass to the now wide-open Panam.
The ball sailed into the unguarded goal just as the final buzzer sounded.
It wasn’t a flashy play; it was a smart, team-first play. A winning play. It was a perfect, elegant solution.
Chapter 5: An Opportunity for Tea
The wild, chaotic joy of the championship victory eventually settled into the comfortable slender of station life. A week later, the four of them were a new, unexpected constellation in the Central Commons. They sat at a corner table, their laughter echoing off the polished deck plates—a sound that was easy and unforced. Wedell was recounting a near-disaster with a misaligned plasma conduit in the workshop, and Taiga was playfully correcting his terminology, while Emillio just listened, smiling.
Böin, leaning back in her chair, let her eyes drift to the large public GBB clock mounted on the wall. Its elegant, flowing digits marked the steady, metric pulse of their lives. The time read 0.17.35.92.7/. She watched the micro-beeps cascade too quickly to count, her gaze settling on the centi-beep display as it clicked from 91 to 92.
Emillio followed her gaze. He saw the numbers not as a schedule, but as a system of possibilities. A quiet, clever light sparked in his eyes as he noticed the ‘5’ in the Beep count: thirty-five. He had learned the lesson well.
“Well, look at that,” he said, his voice just loud enough for their table to hear. “It’s teatime.”
Taiga caught his meaning instantly and a grin spread across her face. Böin blinked for a second, then her face lit up with the delight of understanding a shared secret.
Wedell, now fully initiated into the cultural philosophy, let out a warm laugh. He raised a hand, catching the attention of a passing service-bot. “A pot of Proxima’s finest, please,” he said to the machine, then turned back to the group with a charming, knowing smile.
“Because,” he declared, “any time is a good time for a cup of 5 O’Clock Tea.”
The service-bot returned moments later, a pot of steaming, fragrant tea held gently in its manipulators. As the four of them shared the simple, quiet ritual—pouring, passing cups, breathing in the aroma—they weren’t just hormonal teenagers navigating crushes. They were young citizens, participating in a living philosophy. They were a community, forged not by law or by schedule, but by the shared, voluntary agreement to find a moment of connection in the endless flow of time.
That moment was, in its own way, a beginning for all of them.
Böin, having discovered a love for practical problem-solving, finished school and became an apprentice under Taiga’s father. Her uncanny grace and agility in zero-gravity made her a natural at conducting quick, difficult repairs in the station’s most inaccessible sections.
Panam and Polynja went on to become professional Zero-G ball players, their names celebrated on sports streams across the sector for a few brilliant years before they faded from the public eye, choosing quiet, private lives for themselves.
Wedell Quantas, despite failing his advanced physics exam, found his true calling. He aced his tests in social and political economics and went on to university. His easy charisma and pragmatic understanding of people made him a natural leader. He was later elected to the station council, becoming Luhman 16-Delta’s respected Station Councillor for three consecutive terms.
Emillio Cook, the math-genius, discovered that his innate understanding of systems and patterns was not limited to logic. He found his other talent in the arts and studied architecture. Over the decades, he became a legend, rebuilding and redesigning all sixteen stations in the Luhman 16 system. Each became an eyeball of profound creativity, unique in design like no other station in the galaxy, a testament to a mind that saw beauty in the math of existence.
Maud Ekmàan eventually became the director of the entire station school board, where she championed the group-learning method, keeping classes small and fostering the kind of cross-disciplinary collaboration that had changed the lives of four of her students so long ago. And Kuschel, the gentle AI-Embodiment, launched a new career, its core programming and experience used to teach a new generation of nurses—both AI-E and human—the delicate art of listening.
And Taiga?
She took the longest root in life. After completing her own university studies on Amara, she left the Republic of Proxima B leaving her homeworld Sweet Sixteens far behind - she left for that quiet, montane colonies of Barnard’s Star.