Brandon Sanderson: Perfect State

I nodded, shifting to Lancesight. Looking internally, I set my mental boosts—which would make everything around me seem to slow—to automatically engage if an explosion happened near me, or if my skin were broken.

“I still don’t like this,” Shale said. “Healing boosts aren’t perfect. If someone in there manages to kill you, you’ll . . .”

I would become brain-dead. Part of XinWey’s Doctrine. A person needed to experience real danger or they would never find joy in excelling. There had to be a risk of failure, the chance to die.

Of course, I wouldn’t simply die from a random fall down the stairs. I was far too important. However, I would eventually die of very old age—I was still hundreds of years from that—and, more importantly, I could be killed, particularly if I were attacked by another Liveborn. Even a Simulated Entity like Shale or Besk could kill me if the situation were right.

Well, I’d just have to be careful. “I assume this is State-appropriate clothing?” I asked, holding up the bundle.

Besk nodded. “It will be placed upon you, pressed and neat, as you pass through the portal. There’s also a State-appropriate weapon, as requested.”

“Thanks.”

“It won’t do anything, my lord. Communal States are not intended to be dangerous, and this one is very well monitored. I suspect that your weapon won’t even fire unless the Wode specifically allows it.”

“I’ll feel better having it,” I said. “Never go on a date unarmed.” Words of wisdom from my father. Well, my foster father. I was an orphan, of course. The best kings always are.

“I will remain in contact, my lord,” Besk said. “Direct mental links are allowed to Liveborn visiting this Communal State.”

“Excellent,” I said, taking a deep breath. I tucked the bundle under my arm, then—with no other good reasons to delay—stepped into the portal.

I passed through a flash of light, then stepped out of a metal door. When I looked back, it appeared that I’d come out of a strange, tubular contraption on wheels. It was like a large number of carriages hooked together, each with its own doors and windows.

It is called a train, my lord, Besk noted to me. I’ve been reading about them. Quite fascinating. You might be able to replicate them with Lancing mechanics. The people would be pleased to have a faster method of travel between cities.

Have the Grand Librarian take notes of their descriptions, I sent back to him. I’ll examine the idea when I return.

The sky was dark, and I found myself on a platform at the edge of a strange city. The buildings were constructed as rectangular boxes rising high into the sky, and lights twinkled in many of their windows. The sky was overcast, and the city looked very busy despite the apparently late hour.

I wore muted clothing. Trousers, black shoes that looked horribly impractical, white shirt, some kind of thin scarf tied around my neck, and a jacket. It all fit snugly and wasn’t nearly as heavy as the clothing I was used to. It pulled at me in strange places, and the collar was buttoned too close to my neck for comfort.

I had an odd, wide-brimmed hat on my head in place of my crown. I took that off and tossed it away. Covering my regal hair felt like a shame. Around me, people moved out of the train I had exited. The men wore clothing similar to my own, all in the same hats with the wide brims. None of them had beards, which made me feel more distinctive.

This city is named Maltese, Besk sent. Though most people just call the State that as well, rather than using its official designation as Nightingale124. The local weapon is stored under your arm in a special hidden sheath. It’s known as a handgun, and works by pointing the tube toward your enemy and pulling the trigger underneath.

Like a crossbow?

Yes, my lord. My research says they’re difficult to aim properly. This State does not have symbiont aiming modifications.

Lovely, I sent, walking off the platform. Where do I go?

Straight down the street ahead. Look for a tall, blue-lit building and speak your name to the doorman. You have a reservation.

I followed the instructions, entering a wide street populated by self-driving metal carriages. I had something similar working in most of my cities, though mine were connected to Aurorastone deposits inserted into the roads.

The air smelled faintly of rain, and the ground was damp. Besk rattled off some information he’d found about Maltese in one of our tomes. This State was set perpetually at night in a highly populated city that was loosely based off what the book described as, “western cultures in early twentieth-century Earth.” Whatever that was. Rain came often, but never in more than a drizzle.

I nodded, curious, listening to the sounds of the city as I walked. This State wasn’t necessarily louder than my own—Alornia could be a clamorous place—but the sounds were different, alien. The carriages made garish honks at one another, and they growled like beasts. Perhaps they contained some kind of living animal that powered them.

A street performer I passed was playing a loud brass horn—as if sounding the call to war, though the song had a slur to it, almost as if the music itself were drunken. I was glad Simulated Entities like my subjects couldn’t travel to States like this; I’d hate for the street performers back home to visit here and realize how effective a horn like that was at carrying over a crowd.

And a chatty crowd it was, all bundled up in their too-stiff clothing as they strolled the streets. I fell in behind a group of men and women as I made my way toward the restaurant, listening to them prattle about local politics.

Elections? I asked Besk.

Indeed, he said. Every two years, the local population chooses a new Liveborn to rule.

That’s silly, I sent back. Many of my subject kingdoms had elections for their officials, though I—of course—could intervene and appoint someone if the masses acted foolishly. Who lets Machineborn choose what their Liveborn do? And besides, what can a king accomplish during such a short reign?

It is likely just a formal title, Your Majesty, Besk sent back. There are no Liveborn native to this State; only outside visitors like yourself are eligible to rule. One of the reasons to visit appears to be the draw of vying against other Liveborn for dominance. Though, since outside armies are forbidden, one must use local Machineborn to achieve one’s goals. He hesitated. You might find it a challenge.

Hardly, I thought back with a sniff. If the title changes so frequently, there can’t be any real power to it. I have no intention of getting involved. In fact, the entire nature of this State seemed to highlight that political power was just an illusion provided to engage and excite us Liveborn.

I followed Besk’s directions toward a particular building, tall and rectangular. The restaurant was apparently near the top. I approached, but then pulled up short. What was that series of popping bangs sounding to my right?

The people ahead of me—who were likely Simulated Entities, judging by their conversation—stopped as well, but then just continued on down the street.

What are those bangs, Besk?

Handgun fire, he sent back.

I hesitated for a moment, then took off at a run toward the sounds.

No intention of getting involved, Your Majesty? Besk asked, sounding amused.

Shut up.

I prepared my mental boosts as I drew near. I didn’t let them engage at the sounds; I needed to hold them in reserve, in case using them drew the Wode’s attention. But I did want to be ready.