Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“The Wild Years on Earth,” Mistress Orela began, gesturing to a holographic display showing the ancient home world, “represent a crucial period that most egalitarian worlds have chosen to ignore or misrepresent.”
I leaned forward despite myself, genuinely curious. On Artemisia, the Wild Years had been glossed over in our educational curriculum, dismissed as an unfortunate period of regression before humanity spread to the stars.
“Following the worldwide economic collapse, traditional governmental structures failed completely,” Mistress Orela continued. “In the chaos that followed, natural hierarchies reasserted themselves. Strong men took control of their communities, their families, their women. It was brutal, yes, but it was also functional.”
The holographic display shifted to show images of the period—men in positions of clear authority, women in supporting roles, children protected within rigid family structures. Despite my intellectual objections to what I was seeing, I found the orderliness strangely appealing after the chaos of my own recent experience.
“Most important,” Mistress Orela continued, her voice taking on an almost reverent tone, “women during the Wild Years reported higher levels of satisfaction and psychological stability than they had experienced during the preceding decades of so-called equality. When the burden of impossible choices was lifted from their shoulders, when they were freed from the pressure to compete in arenas unsuited to their nature, they flourished.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the hard wooden chair reminding me of my position here. The historical account felt like a direct attack on everything I had once believed, yet I couldn’t entirely dismiss the evidence being presented. The holographic displays showed communities that had survived catastrophic social collapse through rigid hierarchical structures that placed men in command and women in supportive roles.
“The early colony ships carried these lessons forward,” Mistress Orela said, advancing to the next series of images. “Worlds like Magisteria and Euporia were founded on principles learned during humanity’s darkest hour. We understood that survival required acknowledging biological and psychological realities that more ‘progressive’ worlds chose to ignore.”
The display now showed the founding of various worlds throughout the galaxy—some embracing traditional structures, others pursuing egalitarian ideals. A complex web of trade routes, conflicts, and alliances connected them all, but certain patterns emerged. The traditionally structured worlds seemed more stable, more prosperous, less prone to the internal strife that had plagued planets like mine.
“Miss Viola,” Mistress Orela said suddenly, making me start. “As a former head of state, you have unique insight into these matters. Tell us—did the pressures of leadership bring you satisfaction, or did they create stress and anxiety?”
The question was a trap, and I knew it. But sitting in this classroom, wearing this ridiculous uniform, my body still humming with the aftereffects of the morning’s exercises, I found it difficult to summon my old certainties.
“The presidency was… challenging,” I admitted carefully. “There were many sleepless nights, difficult decisions that affected millions of lives.”
“And did you ever wonder,” Mistress Orela pressed, “what it might be like to have someone else bear that burden? Someone stronger, more naturally suited to command?”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. The honest answer was yes—I had wondered, especially during the darkest moments of the Vionian crisis when every choice seemed to lead to disaster. But admitting that felt like betraying everything I had worked for.
“I… sometimes I did wonder,” I whispered, hating myself for the words even as they brought an unexpected sense of relief.
“Of course you did,” Mistress Orela said, her tone almost gentle now. “It’s natural. The human female psyche evolved to seek protection and guidance from stronger males. When we force ourselves into roles that contradict our deepest programming, psychological distress is inevitable.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of historical analysis and philosophical indoctrination. When evening came, dinner was served with the same quiet efficiency as lunch—simple, nourishing food that we ate mostly in silence under the watchful eyes of Academy staff.
Afterward, we were granted what Mistress Orela called ‘contemplation time’ in a small library adjacent to the dining hall. The room was lined with carefully selected texts, all supporting the Academy’s educational philosophy. I had barely settled into a corner chair when Lara approached, her blonde hair catching the soft lamplight.
“May I sit with you?” she asked, her voice carrying the careful politeness we all seemed to have adopted as if by osmosis from the environment.
I nodded, though part of me wanted to be alone with my churning thoughts. Lara settled into the chair beside mine, her blue eyes studying me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.
“Viola,” she said quietly, glancing around to ensure we weren’t overheard, “can I ask you something personal?”
My stomach clenched with apprehension. “I suppose.”
“Did you always know?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “About being… submissive, I mean. Did you always know that’s what you needed?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. Heat rushed to my cheeks with such intensity I thought everyone in the room must notice. “I’m not submissive,” I said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I was the president of an entire world. I made decisions that affected millions of people. I’m not—I don’t—”