Nickname

Chapter 38: Nickname

Peturabo raised his armored hand, covering the incomplete data panel in the war chariot.

On the panel, made of iron and various minerals, simple to crude forms would occasionally flicker, while long paper tapes, recording data and instructions, ran out of the machine's side exit in streams, piling up like mountains on the war chariot's floor.

He had to clear them out periodically. On the principle that paper tape and carbon black originated from the vastness of nature, he would throw them back out of the war chariot's opening, returning them to nature's embrace, waiting for the additive-free wood pulp to be devoured by those things called microorganisms.

Peturabo straightened the iron band ornament on his head, which had become askew from repairing the machine. He opened the war chariot's top hatch, letting the morning air, mixed with dust, sweep across his cheeks to carry away some of his irritation.

The more he learned, the more he understood that beyond Olympia, there must have been a vaster world, a more distant utopia.

The unreadable collection of books from Lokos had allowed him to touch a corner of the long ladder leading to the high heavens. Endless great concepts were surging from his brain to his fingertips, eager to validate his countless fanciful designs. But, but!

His frustration made him unable to resist pounding his fists on top of his machine, and then he immediately checked to see if the machine had been damaged. A few minutes later, he was sure the machine was unharmed and seemed to have slowly returned to normal operation.

Peturabo rubbed his slightly aching hand, regaining the feeling of suppressing his anger in his heart, and continued to be dejected that Lokos's basic industry couldn't keep up with his progress from any angle. Materials, theory, industrial precision, manpower... everything was too lacking, too backward.

He couldn't even find a single talented person with whom he could communicate properly.

He excitedly carried scrolls to others, explaining how to understand the dynamic multi-pooling convolutional neural network model that learns sentence-level representations by capturing word-level meaningful semantic rules, and uses dynamic multi-pooling strategies to extract trigger words and event arguments. In response, they would only say, "What sentence? What god? Are you asking about the God of Poetry?"

Oh, except for Mors.

Mors would only mock him, saying he couldn't possibly think his theories were perfect. If that guy was in a good mood after basking in the sun, he might engage in more in-depth, enlightening discussions.

Peturabo couldn't deny to himself that these were indeed some of the moments he looked forward to the most.

Another anticipation, of course, was when his creator would come to find him. He would definitely compare Mors to his true creator then, and he would be able to say that Mors's character was truly inferior.

A war chariot caught up to him from behind. Its top hatch also gradually opened, and Calipha stood up from within, waving to him. Her long hair was tied back with a headband, hanging down her back. The headband had black and yellow stripes, a style strongly characteristic of someone, indicating the identity of the giver of this headband.

She cupped her hands around her mouth, like a small amplification device, even though they were already close enough for Peturabo to hear her voice clearly.

"Why are you throwing out paper strips again, Peturabo?" Calipha's shout was filled with teasing laughter. "The wind blew the paper strips right into my hands!"

As she spoke, she grabbed a long string of paper tape from her seat, letting the perforated strips flutter in the airflow.

"You should keep the top hatch closed!" Peturabo shouted back.

"No, then my driver won't be able to see the road!"

"Isn't your glass opaque, Calipha!"

Calipha's smile widened, and her dark hair also gleamed. "The driver says he can't observe his surroundings through that glass, he's not used to it."

"Sooner or later, I'll make it so people don't need to observe the battlefield with their own eyes. That's too foolish!"

"Ah, I'm really looking forward to your achievements!"

"Let's sit down and chat!"

Peturabo pulled the top hatch closed and plugged the radio reception cable into his humming machine interface.

Shortly after, Calipha's voice, clear and bright, sounded in Peturabo's ears through the radio waves, known locally as "Twin Gods' Telepathy." No longer needing to shout, her voice softened again, more like that of a close, chatting blood relative.

"This is the first time you've left Lokos since you arrived here," Calipha said. "You're even acting with the intent of war, not peace."

She paused there, perhaps wanting to ask if Peturabo was ready, perhaps wanting to ask how far Peturabo intended to take this war before stopping.

The current delivered her silence, and silence often allowed the listener to interpret it according to their own inner expectations.

Peturabo leaned back against his chair, pinning his calculation drafts onto a wooden board, and spoke with a stiff tone, "If I don't lead troops, I won't be able to return after leaving Lokos."

"Yes..." Calipha sighed. "Actually, this is also the first time I've left Lokos."

"Dameks is visiting a neighboring country, aren't you accompanying him?"

Calipha's laughter caused a small popping sound in the current. "Harkon going is enough, what am I supposed to do there? Am I supposed to see which prince suits my fancy?"

Her laughter dissolved into Peturabo's silence, and a trace of empty dimness drifted through the current with a booming heaviness. This emotion opened a breach on the outside of Peturabo's heart, with a bond extending and intertwining on both sides.

For a fleeting moment, Peturabo suddenly questioned why he could still sit there so silently and coldly, analyzing this absurd situation with reason.

He then remembered why he was so eager to push everything forward, and whether he was truly changing the affairs and beings on the vast land of Olympia.

"Alright, Peturabo," Calipha said gently. "You're about to become a true general. And I'm a busy quartermaster under a respected general, arranging all the logistics for him, ensuring the fodder to feed the army keeps coming."

"I won't chat with you anymore, I'm going to see if your soldiers have eaten their lunch."

After Calipha finished speaking, she was about to cut off communication. Her hand should have been on the pressed button, about to press it again to make it pop up.

Peturabo called out to her, "Wait a moment, Calipha."

"What is it?"

Peturabo looked at the road ahead through the glass. "What Mors tells me most often is to be frank."

He didn't know what he was saying anymore. He just opened his mouth, his lips and tongue, letting the sentences climb from his heart, marching out through the open passage. His calmness was even beyond his own rational expectations.

"So I allow you—I hope you'll call my name with shorter syllables."

He heard a surprised intake of breath, the trembling airflow piercing directly through the deepest tremors of his soul.

There was a point in time when he even felt despair for his own rash expectations, until Calipha's voice rang out again, "Bo, is that okay?"

"Of course, Calipha," Peturabo blurted out.

From this moment on, he knew he no longer needed to engage in an endless, cyclical struggle with his own weaknesses.