"By the glory of Argal, this nato greets the great general."
His voice was calm, with a monotonous, lifeless intonation. Not a single tone higher, nor lower. It was simply a way to convey his indifference toward that man who called himself his father. He was, certainly he was, but as far as Korr was concerned, there was no kinship beyond blood. He refused to recognize this despicable being as his father.
Vorath did not return the greeting immediately. His eyes, dark as the abyss of space, only gazed toward those creatures depicted on the mural, although he knew in advance that it was nothing more than an optical illusion resulting from the way the strokes were arranged.
It was, without a doubt, interesting to him.
Then, his gaze fixed on that of his son, who watched him without saying a single word beyond what was requested. That bothered him, because he knew that natos generally did not behave the way this brat did.
This child was strange, but very self-aware, as well as violent and vengeful. That meant there was a potential valuable asset for the empire; he only needed to adjust his behavior slightly.
Their locked gazes stretched for seconds that seemed endless, and in their irises, there was only mockery and excessive, raw hatred for one another. Mockery from the elder, and from the younger, nothing more than a longing for death toward the source of that mockery.
"Where were you?" Vorath was the first to break the tension, his question descending like an anvil, heavy and unappealable.
"Practicing, great general." Maintaining his posture, Korr responded to his question. Before presenting himself, he had appropriately hidden his diary on that large black marble table, where its color blended with the help of the shadows, providing a temporary refuge for his memories.
Vorath nodded, narrowing his eyes at that response devoid of any addition that might allow for multiple interpretations.
Vorath kept his gaze on him for a moment longer, waiting for him to say something related to his training, but the brat did not; he never did, to be more precise. He had expected to have to teach him to adapt to the initial stage of his optimization, but the boy did not allow it due to his resentment.
He did everything alone. His flight, his strength, the unspoken details of his abilities—everything was explored by himself, and he did not give him the opportunity to do his job as the empire demanded. Nevertheless, Vorath found this fact satisfying. The more time on the battlefield, the better. Here, he was only wasting valuable time.
His gaze shifted to the left, where a floating figure stood, motionless in the threshold of one of the halls. The cybernetic eyes of that artificial intelligence returned his gaze, ready to execute his orders.
"Report," ordered Vorath, without even giving a second look to the temporal apparatus. He felt ashamed to have to resort to means he considered degrading, but the general feared that his son would continue to divert his Viltrumite education to focus on second-class activities.
"Detailing report," the artificial intelligence announced. The loud voice of that robot was the same one Korr had heard for so many years, Viltrumite cycles, in which, while contemplating the eternal hours of longevous days, that voice slipped through his auditory canals and refreshed his spirits, coloring his second life.
It made him feel like he was not alone in a world full of nothingness, where there was only death and dystopia without hope for a less nefarious, desolate tomorrow.
It was like still feeling human.
Bile rose in his throat for an instant, and his eyes—his eyes, which seemed to become irritated in a sea of sensations—almost betrayed him before the one responsible for taking away his only companion.
But he resisted; he endured the emotional bleeding of his sorrowful heart.
He listened to that aberration betray him exactly as it had been programmed to do.
"The young lord Korr-Add has been in continuous flight for the last three segments, great general. His trajectory has covered the outer perimeter of the fortress, ascending to the lower stratosphere on two occasions. On both ascents, he has maintained aerodynamic control within the parameters expected for his development level as an elite nato of classification 15."
The machine paused momentarily, indifferent to the clenching of Korr's fists, who thought, as every solitary morning since that day, about the secrets he and Syra-Vel had kept. It was the most precious part of their friendship.
"Subsequent to the flight exercises, the young lord positioned himself at the highest point of the structure to engage in what his biological records indicate as a period of rest and meditation. His vital signs during this period remained within healthy margins for a nato of his genetic classification, although elevations in his cortisol levels were detected during the first moments of inactivity."
And the robot concluded its report, ready to await the next order.
Vorath gave a barely perceptible nod, assenting with serious approval.
"See?" he said, looking at his son. The softness of his words was like a stab for Korr, who could only remain there, motionless, doing nothing. "The pet you call 'friend' could have preserved its life if it had fulfilled its function as this unit does," he reprimanded him once more, as he had been doing since Syra-Vel's death. "The imperial doe belonging to the advanced performance system with logical energy vector, serial number S R O 9 5 0 X, the organism you decided to call Syra-Vel, was conceived, trained, and certified to serve, care for, and train the empire's natos until the awakening of optimization. But it chose to deviate, in some way that I do not know. And in its deviation, it incurred the transgression of contaminating my descendant with its inferior conceptions." His cold words seeped into Korr's bones, who averted his gaze to see the white nothingness. "I spent twelve valuable merits on a defective product; do not pretend to be outraged because I disposed of my property, mine, with my merits."
Korr kept his stomach churned the entire time. The empire's lack of civilization sowed alienation in his being. The mere thought of processing Vorath's words, reducing a conscious, thinking life to nothing more than a simple animal, made him want to tear off his skin and suffocate him with it until his death. Syra-Vel was not a cow, was not an animal, was not a slave. She was his friend.
The general did not seem to expect a response to what was said; he was not in the least interested in the possible disagreements of his rebellious son. Anyway, he would understand soon.
He turned around, his white boots rotating on the floor, and began to levitate toward the center of the hall. From there, he crossed his arms over his chest and straightened his back.
"Nevertheless," he added, "I have decided that your discipline, over these last few months, merits a reward."
Korr was not the least bit interested in whatever that alien wanted to give him.
"Your progress in these cycles has been... acceptable. I must acknowledge that at your age, I had taken up to twenty times your estimated time before mastering my abilities." Vorath explained, nodding at his son's brilliance, who, apparently, despite being a class 15 nato, had such high cognitive abilities that he seemed to improve much faster than other natos, even those of classifications higher than his own, and that was a positive thing. "Your flight has improved greatly. Your obedience, though late, has consolidated... and your uniform remains clean, as it should be."
"Therefore," Vorath continued, "depending on your performance in the next six cycles in the Dorymathos, I have decided that I will take you to the lower level of the city."
Those words caught Korr's attention. Since that incident, he had been forbidden to go to the lower levels of the city. Going there was part of many of the secrets he kept from his father.
"Be the best among the natos, and you may adopt as many pets as you wish," added Vorath.
Korr's brow furrowed, refusing to say anything. It was unnecessary, and Vorath did not care either.
"As long as, of course, you treat them as what they are—inferior beasts, not companions. They are not your friends, they are not your race; I do not want to repeat what happened, do you understand?"
"Yes, great general," Korr answered.
"Good," Vorath sighed.
He levitated toward the great arch that opened at the eastern end of the hall, his silhouette silhouetted against the purplish horizon.
"Follow me," he ordered, as Korr obeyed his command. "It is time to be delivered to your true training."
And then he launched himself into the sky. Korr could only witness how his father, who a moment ago was at the threshold of the arch, the next instant had already become a white streak merging with the clouds, a line of speed that seemed to cut through the atmosphere like a knife through silk.
Korr flexed his legs and launched himself with all the force his body could muster. The fortress floor was left behind in just a fraction of a second, though it was not even the slightest fraction of Vorath's displacement.
He felt the air try to behave like a solid against his rough skin, as he ascended toward the sky, following that white streak his father had left as a marked path for him, since he would not wait for him.
The city unfolded beneath him, but this time he did not stop to contemplate it.
As he followed the path his father had taken, his mind returned once more to the moments of companionship, of warmth, and despite the ineffectiveness, he prayed as when he was once human, and his mother recited the words to say.
If any benevolent deity existed in the cold universe, he prayed and hoped that Syra-Vel's soul would remain under its bosom, free from any yoke, invaluable in her precious being, beautifying the desolate worlds with her beautiful existence.
Wherever you are, Syra-Vel, how I miss you.