Brandon Sanderson: Perfect State

And not here, that tone seemed to imply. I tossed the bar aside. Lords, I hated this place.

Your Majesty, Besk’s voice said, sounding frustrated, in my head. I have contacted the Wode. They seemed responsive at first, but soon sent back a note saying that you would be fine. They . . . they sounded amused, my lord.

Great. And now I looked a fool to the Wode as well. I walked over and retrieved my handgun from the street, then fired the last projectile into the ground, noting the splat of paint it made.

Your Majesty? What happened? Besk asked. You seem in pain, judging by the empathic link.

I’m fine, I replied as I walked away from the scene of the game, leaving only some paint stains that still looked startlingly like blood to me. It was a game, Besk.

A game?

You’re right; the weapons are transformed by this State’s programming. They fire non-lethal projectiles; Liveborn have used that fact to make a game out of assassinating one another, or something like that.

Curious, Besk sent back. It says in our tome that there are consequences in Maltese for firing such weapons, and I interpreted that to mean the Wode forbade it.

No, I sent back. The consequence seems to be that if you’re ‘killed,’ the local Machineborn can’t see you for a few weeks.

It made sense. If the overriding politics of this State involved currying favor with a voting public, being effectively ‘timed out’ for a few weeks was a real consequence. It was a way to make the game more thrilling, but not dangerous. Though most of this State was a calm place for meetings, dining, and nightlife, the political subtheme allowed Liveborn to come play as well. Join one of the gangs, try to take over a portion of the city and run a criminal empire.

I might have found it entertaining in my early seventies, back when I’d been a kid. Right now, it seemed far too transparent. It didn’t help my mood that I knew for certain the weapon under my arm would be useless if I encountered any real danger.

The restaurant was an upper level of one of the larger buildings at the center of town. A line of people waited to get in, though I walked past them. I wouldn’t, of course, be expected to wait in a line.

It felt so odd to have nobody trailing me. No servants, no soldiers. At the front doors, a man guarding the entrance bowed, then waved me past. I caught a glimpse of a clipboard with a page full of faces on it, mine included. Several of the people from the gunfight earlier were also pictured, and I guessed this was a sheet telling him all the Liveborn visiting the city, so he’d know who to obey. Only a few of those here in the city would be Liveborn—maybe a hundred or so out of millions. Just like in other States, the rest would be Machineborn. Simulated Entities who had been born within the State, and would live their entire lives here.

The Wode could have just programmed the door guard to recognize Liveborn without needing a list, but that would have broken the illusion. Did these people know about their natures? In my State, very few were told. Age of Awareness laws didn’t apply to them, and so the only place they could hear about it all was from me or the Wode Scroll.

After riding to the top floor in a glass-sided box on wires, I was led to a dining table for two set off from the others in the room. It had a dramatic view of the twilit city. So many lights; this place seemed to have an energy to it. That I liked, though it couldn’t compare to the Grand Aurora.

I sat down, absently handing my jacket to a nearby servant, trusting it would make its way back to me eventually. I glanced over the menu and ordered a small set of drinks—sixteen cups, each with a sip’s worth of wine in it—so I could decide which one I wanted to have with my meal. The servant blinked at the request; perhaps I hadn’t ordered enough cups. The wine terminology was similar to my own, even if I didn’t know the specific vintages.

Such interesting decorations, I sent to Besk, inspecting the small glass-covered candle that had been sitting at the center of my table. No hearth at all. Soft music. Dim lights. It’s actually quite nice.

Do you wish for me to release the imperial drummers from service, my lord?

No, but find out what instrument produces these sounds.

A servant arrived with a platter full of wine cups. I selected one and raised it to my lips. Then froze.

A woman slid between the tables toward my position. She wore a red dress, but it was quite unlike the ones worn in my State. Form fitting, with a slit up the side, and a modest neckline where the fabric folded a few times. She wore shoes with spike heels at the back, and had dark, shoulder-length hair.

I lowered the cup. The woman had a certain poise about her. Servants moved out of her way, and she walked as if she expected them to. Her steps were slow, confident, and someone even pulled a table to the side to make room for her to pass. She never looked down or broke stride. Her eyes were on me.

The cup slipped in my fingers, and the red liquid spilled onto the tabletop. I cursed, holding out my palm to draw in the Aurora’s energy to . . .

Well, I would have destroyed the pigment in the wine, rendering it colorless, then drawn the moisture from it and split the water into its two primal gases to leave the tablecloth dry. If I’d been able to Lance.

Instead, I stared at the tablecloth, crossed my eyes to enter Lancesight, and was left in complete darkness until I hopped back to ordinary sight.

“So you’re him?” the woman asked, reaching the table. She stood there for a moment. “You realize it’s good manners to rise in the presence of a lady.”

“It’s also good manners to curtsy to the God-Emperor,” I said, covering the spilled wine with my napkin.

“Oh great,” she said, sitting. “You’re one of those .”

“Kairominas the First of Alornia,” I said, holding out a hand to her. “Keeper of the Seventeen Lanterns, Master of Ultimate Lancing, Slayer of Galbrometh.”

“Magical Kingdom State,” she said, refusing the hand and sliding into her chair. “Did you ride a unicorn to get here?”

“We don’t have those,” I said flatly. “And you?”

“Just call me Sophie.”

“From?”

“An Emerging Equality State,” she said. “I led a worldwide civil rights movement, brought my people into the progressive era, then served five terms as the first female world president.”

“Impressive,” I said, trying to be polite.

“Actually it’s not,” she said, waving for a servant to fetch her some wine. “I just played the role they set up for me.”

“I see.”

We stared at each other. The wine was starting to bleed through my napkin, but Sophie didn’t seem to care. She watched me.

“What?” I finally asked.

“I’m trying to figure you out,” she said.

“It sounded as though you assumed you already had.”

“You’re arrogant,” she said. “But we all are. You’re an authoritarian; you came here because you were ordered to, even though you didn’t like it. You prefer to control everything around you—at your palace, I would find immaculate gardens and safe pieces of art hanging in a building designed by straightforward architects. I’ve seen hundreds like you. Thousands. Immensely powerful, but boring.”

You know, I thought to Besk, maybe I shouldn’t have tried the bottom of the list after all. . . .

Besk somehow held himself back from making a comment about that.

“So,” I said, controlling my voice with some effort, “if you have all of these presumptions about me, why are you here? I can assume from the tone in your voice that you do not respect authority. Odd, for the president of an entire world.”