Brandon Sanderson: Perfect State

I crossed two of this State’s too-smooth stone streets, then entered a smaller roadway where a group of men in hats was advancing on a young woman wearing trousers and a jacket. She fired a small handgun at her attackers desperately from within the faint cover of a recessed doorway, the door at her back apparently locked. Her only companion was another woman who lay splayed facedown on the street, golden hair fanned out around her head, blood staining the back of her dress.

Alert the Wode , I said to Besk. Something illegal is happening here.

I then entered Lancesight. It was like stepping into nothingness . Here, instead of the warmth of the Grand Aurora, I found only an empty coldness all around.

Idiot , I thought, stumbling in that darkness. What had I expected? I slipped out of Lancesight, grabbing the weapon from under my arm. The handgun felt bulky in my grip, and the hilt was shaped like a box, instead of the smooth roundness of a sword hilt. I pointed the open end of the tube toward the men and pulled the trigger. The handgun popped and jerked in my hand, nearly jumping clean out of it. Lords! The thing was almost impossible to control. And the noise—why would you want a weapon that drew so much attention?

Fortunately, my sudden arrival—and the cacophony of my shots as I pulled the trigger several more times—distracted the men and let the woman dash from her alcove to greater safety behind a large metal box with rubbish spilling out the top. I met her there, putting my back to the trash receptacle, feeling a thrill of excitement.

“You know this area better than I do,” I told the woman. “Which way should we flee?”

She studied me. She was pretty, her face angular with dark skin. Then she raised her weapon at me and fired.

I dodged the shot.

Well, technically I didn’t dodge the shot, so much as get out of the way before it was fired in the first place. I engaged my mental boosts—slowing the world to my perception—which allowed me to judge where the woman was going to point her weapon. I didn’t move any more quickly while boosted, but the advantage of watching her muscles and studying her posture let me twist to the side so that when she actually shot, the projectile missed me.

It was close nonetheless. The shot passed by my side as I fell backward to the ground, disengaging my boosts—I usually only wanted to use them for short intervals—and leveled my handgun toward the woman. From this close range, I was able to manage the weapon well enough to plant two shots in her chest, all the while thinking about how primitive it felt to be using a metal tube instead of the powers of the Grand Aurora.

One projectile left in your handgun, Your Majesty, Besk sent. He was at his happiest when he could count things for me.

Thanks, I sent back, though I didn’t think I’d need the weapon. As the other men came for me, I tossed the handgun toward one of them and grabbed the end of something sticking from the top of the trash receptacle. A thin metal bar. I spun it in my hand, getting a feel for its weight, then turned toward the nearest aggressor, a man who was trying—and fumbling—to catch the weapon I’d tossed him.

I swung. The bar wasn’t Indelebrean—my enchanted sword—but it had a good heft to it, and made a satisfying whoosh in the air as I connected with the man’s hand. Bones crunched, and he dropped the handgun with a cry of pain. I stepped forward, raising the metal bar, hoping my healing boosts would be enough to handle getting hit by one of those shots from the other—

“Stop!” cried the man in front of me, falling to his knees. “Holy hell , are you crazy?”

The other two raised their hands, turning their weapons away from me and backing up. “Calm down, stranger,” one said. “Time out, pause.”

The man closest to me cursed, and I stepped back, cautiously wary.

“Raul,” one of the standing men said to the one I’d hit, “this is your own fault. You got into a melee.”

“Doesn’t mean he can hit me with a freaking bar ,” said the man on the ground, who was cradling his broken wrist.

“Actually it does,” said the other man.

I stood there, alert and confused, metal bar held in a swordsman’s stance.

“Damn,” the third man said, looking down at the woman I’d killed. “He got Jasmine. What faction are you, stranger?”

“. . . Faction?” I asked.

“We’ll just see what registers,” the second man said, checking a small device strapped to his wrist.

Nearby, the woman on the ground groaned and pushed to her feet. I gaped, then pointed my weapon at her, ready. Necromancy? Healing boosts? No . . . with surprise, I realized that my shots hadn’t pierced her clothing. I glanced toward where the shot I’d dodged had hit the ground, and found that it had made a bloodred streak on the street.

Paint. The shots exploded into paint when they hit.

“What kind of trap was that ?” the woman demanded, pointing at me. Nearby, her friend—the other woman—roused as well. “Did you think I’d believe that someone was coming to my aid last-minute, Raul?”

“It wasn’t us,” said the man whose wrist I’d broken. This wound, it appeared, didn’t simply heal. “He’s some other faction.”

They all looked to me.

“I’m . . . uh . . .” I cleared my throat, standing up straighter. “I am Kairominas of Alornia, God-Emperor of—”

“Oh hell,” the woman said. “A Medieval Statie.”

“Yup,” one of the men said, looking at the device on his arm. “The kill was registered as a wildcard.”

“I see,” I said. “It’s a . . . game?”

They ignored me, the woman—Jasmine—flopping back on the ground, paying no attention to the paint stains on her jacket and shirt. “You mean I’m going to spend the next two weeks invisible to the local AIs, and nobody relevant even got points for my hit?”

“At least he didn’t break your wrist,” Raul complained. He’d climbed to his feet. “How am I going to get this fixed? Maltese doesn’t even have bone-knitting technology.”

“Who cares,” Jasmine said. “Killed by a wildcard? Do you have any idea what that will do to my rankings?”

“You agreed to the civil war, Jasmine,” one of the other men said. “It’s not our fault you let us ambush you.” He reached out a hand to help her to her feet. She looked at him, then turned her glare toward me. “It’s his fault.”

They all regarded me again, and I felt conspicuous there, holding my improvised weapon. I met their gazes anyway. I was an emperor.

So are they, I reminded myself. I could see it in the way they held themselves—the way Jasmine refused the hand and climbed up on her own, the way Raul had shoved down his pain and ignored his wound. He was instead calling upon someone—speaking into a device on his good wrist—to dispute my kill, claiming it should be credited to him because of his trap. Each of these people was accustomed to being the most important one in the room.

Once they’d determined I wasn’t relevant, they dispersed, speaking into wrist devices or to one another. The third man, the one who hadn’t been speaking much, wandered off with the woman who had already been dead when I’d arrived.

“Fantasy Staties,” he was saying to the woman. “You should have seen him, charging in here, ready to rescue Jasmine. All that was missing was armor and a horse.”

“I can’t understand why the Wode would do such a thing,” the woman replied. “Making them grow up in such barbaric and primitive surroundings.”

“It’s not the Wode’s fault,” the man said, their voices trailing away as I was left alone on the street. “They match the State to the emerging personality of the individual. He belongs there.”