Dream of Building Cities

Mors tilted his head back slightly.

Before dawn, the stars wound across the sky like an infinitely enormous serpent, each flicker a glint off its scales. Olympia's atmosphere was a frosted sphere, and the serpent coiled and contracted beyond it.

A century ago, he had looked up and witnessed the birth of that howl that shook the soul, projected into the material universe. Since then, he had often been struck by such illusions.

He lifted his leg and stepped onto the tall stone stairs. This twisting path along the cliff had never been properly cleared. Whenever the Lokos guard passed through, they swung the weapons used to kill enemies at the earth and stone instead. The dust yielded before iron tools forged by craftsmen, and little by little, the cliff offered the path to humanity.

Above them, on a relatively level stretch of road, a guard named Mityad and his accompanying party waited in silence. Their platinum armor had lost its color in the dim hour before dawn.

Along with the color, the guards' voices had vanished. Out of an unknown respect, perhaps even reverence, these spear-bearers who enforced law in city-states and nations did not dare entertain the slightest thought of urging Mors and Peturabo onward.

Mors turned back and studied Peturabo's every movement.

Even after changing from a complete weapon of manufacture into a flawed mortal, the boy's speed of learning and growth remained exceptional.

Half an hour ago, Peturabo had secretly frowned at the rugged path and the height differences far too great for a boy his size. Now, he had learned to skillfully seek out every convenient foothold, brace himself against the rock wall, grip each protruding stone with steady fingers, and advance with the least possible effort.

But he was still not fast enough.

Mors bent down and extended an arm diagonally, offering Peturabo a helping hand.

The boy glanced at him. "Move it," he said, panting.

"You're too slow, Peturabo," Mors said evenly. "The Lokos guard is waiting for you."

"Then let them wait." Peturabo moved his lips and uttered a short string of High Gothic.

"I'm waiting for you too."

Peturabo said nothing. He merely lowered his eyes and seized Mors's black-cloth-wrapped hand with a hard tug, allowing Mors to lift him up effortlessly. Then Mors gave a light push with his feet, and the two of them flew upward against the pull of the planet's core.

Before Peturabo had found his footing, Mors let go. The boy nearly stumbled before the people of Lokos. He swayed, said nothing, and a flash of anger passed through his eyes.

Mors blinked once and nodded to the people of Lokos.

The soldiers seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. They all gave Mors slight nods in return, then immediately turned and marched ahead in neat formation to lead the way, their steps perhaps even more orderly than when they underwent review by their nation's tyrant.

Mors rested his right hand on Peturabo's shoulder and accepted the soldiers' salute.

Mountain mist churned through the half-lit darkness, silently sliding over the roadside thick with thorny vegetation. Peturabo held his chin high. Only when the edges of sharp little leaves cut the sides of his feet did the expression on his face twitch briefly.

A chill stabbed from Mors's palm into Peturabo's shoulder. Then the boy heard a voice brimming with mockery.

+They respect me.+

Psychic power surged, and a private communication channel opened.

Peturabo glared at Mors, instinctively learning how to make two minds collide and converse within the psychic circuit. Of course, he could not use psychic power himself. Mors had merely granted him temporary access to that ability.

+Because you are an extraordinary craftsman. That is what I told them.+

+Then what are you angry about? Do you want that respect too? Do you want the people of Olympia to adore you with reverence?+

+No! I do not need the adoration of mortals,+ Peturabo said proudly.

+Oh, not needing something and being unable to obtain it are two different matters. You are very honest, child.+

Peturabo secretly frowned, hoping the vast darkness of the night would make the shadows gathered between his brows impossible to notice.

+Of course I can obtain it, if only you return my abilities to me. You took a part of what I was born with, then mocked me because I can no longer satisfy you. Do you enjoy the satisfaction that comes from holding a higher position than me?+

+What satisfies me more is this: in your mind, the only value by which you can earn others' admiration is your superhuman talent. Once you lost that extraordinary nature, you easily convinced yourself that, with your own character and intellect, you could never earn anyone's respect. What an interesting realization! You know very well what sort of person you are. I appreciate that, good boy.+

Peturabo felt hot blood rush into his cheeks. He twisted away, breaking free of Mors's palm.

The psychic connection quietly severed. He looked up and met Mors's scrutinizing gaze for barely half a second before hurriedly looking away. At the same time, he avoided the mortal guard ahead and let his eyes settle on the hazy nightscape around them.

At the end of the mountain range, where the edge of silent highlands met the dark blue night, a magnificent city-state appeared and vanished through the gloom. Domes and spires occasionally rose from beneath the earth.

This was where they were going, Peturabo thought silently. He would travel a long way through cruel mountains to a city-state where he would gain nothing.

He continued looking around. Valleys split open, and the terrain rose and fell. The planet itself had used mountains and jagged rocks to divide countless plains.

Then humanity had divided those lands once more with weapons and power.

Peturabo saw farmland. The lights of villages were warm colors opposite to the stars, spreading bright yellow patches beneath the gray sky. Flowing streams calmed within man-made reservoirs before being carried by mechanical waterwheels to fertile land.

He could not help trying to devise more ingenious arrangements and mechanisms in his mind, to improve the efficiency of water supply and help grain grow better in the fields. He also tried to envision a gentle, broad, unbroken road that erased the mountains' interference and enabled smoother industrial exchange between village and village, city-state and city-state.

He could not help imagining a more mechanized, advanced age.

He thought of drainage systems, zoning, rapid transportation, and residential structures that combined beauty with practicality.

Homes would be machines for living in. Perhaps building facades could be freed from bearing loads. With more advanced structural designs, planes could take on more convenient, colorful, dynamic forms. The concepts of city blocks and inner courtyards could be remade; roads could once more spread in grids between buildings; three-dimensional transportation could thread through the entire city like the circuits of a precision instrument; public services and collective operations could be extended across the whole planet and even farther...

Then he failed. That knowledge flashed past from the depths of his mind like fleeting streams of light. He tried to seize it, but could only grasp a handful of thin mountain mist.

Peturabo suddenly felt empty. The disconnect between desire and reality descended truly upon the depths of his soul, leaving him unable to escape it for a long while.

Yet unlike the anger and irritation his forgotten knowledge had stirred in him before, this time Peturabo even forgot the endurance he often contemplated and the shame he believed to be his own.

The place he was heading for was Lokos. Perhaps his construction would begin there. The tyrant of this nation would welcome him; of that, he could be certain. Had not the man named Dameks already sent soldiers to receive him?

From battlements and fortresses to workshops and fields...

He immersed himself in grand visions of engineering, vaguely feeling that the ground beneath his feet had already become a broad completed road, while his still-nonexistent people awaited the coming daylight in clean, orderly homes.

Until an arrow shot before his eyes shattered against the psychic shield.

"Careful. We're under attack," Mors said calmly, raising a hand to point toward the concealed shadows of the mountain peak. There, several murky shadows moved quietly.

Peturabo finally woke from his imagined world. The first thing he did was look up to see Mors's reaction.

Strangely, upon that cold and detestable face, one he had become familiar with in recent days, he read a trace of amusement and encouragement directed at him personally.

At some point, the Lokos squad had formed a ring around them. Two stood in front and two behind, assuming combat stances as they firmly protected Mors and Peturabo at the center.