Cultivating A Nation of Workers, Not Thinkers
Ames wasn’t sure what pulled him toward the old box in the back of the closet. Maybe it was the quiet of the evening, maybe the strange sense that the past was calling to him. Whatever it was, he found himself kneeling on the floor, brushing dust off a stack of weathered notebooks he hadn’t opened in more than fifteen years.
Inside the first one were pages of observations, half-formed theories, and late-night thoughts he’d written during a time when he was still trying to understand how the world really worked. As he flipped through the brittle pages, one recurring subject emerged: the education system in Erica.
Back then, Ames had begun to notice something was off. Children weren’t being taught to question, to examine, to think. They were being shaped—subtly, methodically—into workers. Uniform, predictable, compliant. The system had been designed to produce function, not imagination.
But beneath that surface objective, Ames had uncovered something even more calculated.
According to his notes, the architects of Sra had faced a problem early in their formation: how to identify—and quietly recruit—the rare individuals whose intelligence rose far beyond the norm. They needed thinkers, strategists, innovators. Not many, just enough to steer the machinery of their future empire.
Their researchers studied ancient civilizations for clues and eventually found their model in a forgotten nation called Reec. Reec had discovered centuries earlier that the cleanest way to identify exceptional minds was simply to celebrate them publicly. Declare competitions. Offer rewards. Build a culture around recognizing brilliance—then track exactly who rose to the top.
Sra modernized the model.
They embedded it into Erica’s compulsory schooling. They institutionalized IQ tests, GPA rankings, merit awards, and most importantly, scholarships—all framed as opportunities, all perfectly effective at exposing those with unusual cognitive potential. Students were sorted without ever realizing they were being evaluated for anything beyond academic success.
The most gifted were quietly flagged.
Some were guided into elite universities. Others were steered into government programs, corporate internships, or “special opportunities” backed by front organizations controlled—directly or indirectly—by Sra. Most never understood how—or why—their paths had been laid so smoothly.
Ames reread a line he’d written long ago:
“Not all scholarship winners become prodigies, but all prodigies pass through the scholarship gate.”
Even the athletic scholarships served a purpose, though not the same one. Those funneled physically gifted students into sports industries—massive public spectacles designed not only to entertain, but to distract. The more invested the people became in teams, rivalries, and tribal identity, the less they questioned the structures above them. A population trained to cheer for colors on a jersey would eventually cheer for colors on a political map.
Team mentality over individual thought.
Loyalty to factions over loyalty to country.
Patriotism replaced with partisanship.
It was all in Ames’s handwriting, sentences he barely remembered writing, but every word rang true.
According to his notes, many of the world’s most powerful Ions—corporate titans, innovators, and moguls—had been identified this way. Their success stories later celebrated as proof of the system’s meritocracy… even as Sra quietly cleared the roads ahead of them, ensuring no ordinary citizen could ever threaten their rise.
Ames closed the notebook slowly.
The plan had been hiding in plain sight. It still was.
And most of the world remained none the wiser.
