Life in Viltrum seemed good, but Korr, more than any other child his age, knew it was the complete opposite.
Despite the advances, despite the chimera that loomed over everything he saw each long day, he was aware that all of it was blocked by the strong ominous oppression of the historical context, not to say reality, of what the outside of his prison was.
The truth was that the blocks confining him were his only refuge from the hell that was Viltrum, the real Viltrum.
Nap time was waiting for his sleep, so they walked silently down the geometrically perfect hallway. Their footsteps barely echoed on the palladium metal covering the floor, and the whisper of Syra-Vel's tunic, a few steps ahead, was the only thing accompanying the beat of his own thoughts.
These days he had thought a lot. Despite having an eternity ahead of him, he could not find a future for his life.
This world seemed wonderful, but deep down, everything around him seemed to kill him and wrap him in a cold that froze his consciousness.
His new life was not life.
He mostly dreamed of a distant past. Of those December mornings when his mother lit the wood stove before he woke up.
He remembered the smell of pine, and the warm embrace of air running through his body each morning. He could remember that old, deteriorated treehouse that his father had promised to fix since he first had use of reason, but never repaired.
He remembered his mother's hand on his head when they prayed to the heavens, giving thanks for a new dawn, asking for blessings for the family, the neighbors, and for those who suffered.
He did not realize when the moment came that he had stopped praying; it was probably in his mid-twenties, like so many born into the bosom of a religious family, overwhelmed by questions that seemed to have no answers.
Nevertheless, from those vestiges remained the custom of mutual respect, love for one's neighbor.
He thought about his days in the army, where he entered through compulsory service, and where he had to endure the shouts of his superiors, the excessive polishing of boots, or the cleaning of the barracks with a toothbrush.
He remembered that this was definitely not his life, and he fled from there as soon as he completed his mandatory service time. He hated conflict, and that kind of life simply would not be for him.
Then he dreamed of university, which was a complete disaster. He ventured into a career that only the rich, idle, and financially secure could pursue without any problem: fine arts.
With effort, he barely managed to graduate, and with his love for science, although he lacked the complete genius required, he managed to create a mix to make his own art and make a name for himself in a secluded corner of the local museum.
Then he decided to touch the ground once and for all, and began teaching at a public university, where he looked for ways to ensure that his students were not just trying to pass the subject as their only goal.
And as if that were not enough, they paid him a miserable salary. But even with all that, he had been happy.
He was also happy with his first and only wife, and he learned about passions, romantic love, and the longing to unite with another being as much as possible. But with that, divorce also came, the product of multiple factors that forked his path until the separation of the two became completely inevitable.
He remembered the afternoon when his own son, trembling as he was back then, confessed to him that he was gay. By this point, Korr already knew that something was not right with that boy. Being different was better than being something worse.
Except for the taunts of his other, younger, fake son, who only did it to annoy him about these events, everything seemed fine. For a long time, he thought about that brat, whom he had picked up off the street and decided to give his last name. He barely spoke and seemed to have been through a lot, but with effort, the boy grew up to become something beyond extraordinary.
He often dreamed of him, watching his games from the front rows of the stands at the World Cup. He was famous, very famous, and he was proud of the future he had built for himself.
He remembered his savings, looking at that confusing painting, beer in hand. He always seemed to fall into the red, but he lived with what was necessary. He decided to invest wisely and with some luck, and when digital coins exploded beyond the unimaginable, he decided it was time to let the next generation of teachers deal with university brats.
He dreamed of his memories, his last years painting in the mornings, reading super-scientific articles he barely understood but found fascinating in the afternoons.
Every now and then he replied to emails from former students who were now architects or illustrators, or simple managers of some burger chain in some particular county.
Almost fifty years, a life well lived, or so he hoped they would say at the funeral he would never know if it took place. Because just as in life you do not know what there is in death, in death you would not know what happens on the other side of the living.
Although his particular situation was, without a doubt, different, not to say disconcerting for a time.
Now, trapped in this infant's body, blocked by white walls devoid of imperfection, everything that returned his gaze seemed to subvert the way he believed life should be.
He had a father who seemed to despise his existence because of the uncertainty regarding the usefulness he might exercise in this empire. He had a nanny who was a slave, whom he refused to see as such, out of respect for his moral, personal, and religious principles.
And an absent mother who, in the words of the progenitor himself, hated the simple fact of my existence. Why? No idea. But the matter of family love did not exist on this planet.
Nothing he knew could be measured or put into practice on Viltrum.
Nothing that was would ever be again.
But worse yet, in this world he did not have the most fundamental factor for a conscious being living in society: the right to choice.
In his previous life, Korr chose everything; every decision was his. The divorce, the adoption, the profession, the faith he left but that never completely abandoned him, respect for truth and the right of others—everything that made him, he chose. He chose to be who he was.
But in this new life, he knew they would seek to uproot what he was to transform him into what they wanted him to be.
His situation was a race against the clock, before everything exploded.
Because he lived in a society, a totalitarian society.
The residence hallways stretched before them, white and silent, illuminated by that dawn light that seemed to stop in slowed time.
Korr walked beside Syra-Vel with the technopathic helmet hanging from his tiny hand. Exhaustion was beginning to weigh on his eyelids, always marveling at the nanny's accuracy beside him. She seemed to know everything; with that predictive capacity, there was no doubt she was impressive.
"Syra-Vel, do you think tomorrow we can try a higher frequency?" Korr asked, trying to keep his tone casual, with the intention of clearing his thoughts.
Syra-Vel did not respond immediately. Her bioluminescent hair had recovered its usual blue hue, although without Korr noticing, there was some tension in its ends.
"Young master," she said, but in her voice there was something distant, focused on the door to the chambers. "You had better enter first. Wait here, please."
This seemed strange to Korr. It was the first time something like this had happened.
"Really? Is something wrong?" he asked, but she gave no answers, remaining silent.
More importantly, the doors were open, so, making the proper calculations, it meant someone was inside without permission.
Korr frowned, increasing his caution at the strange situation.
Syra-Vel hurried forward, betraying her false calm, while with one hand she signaled Korr not to move from his spot.
Korr's curiosity overcame him, so he moved forward, discovering, to his surprise and dismay, the reason for his suspicions.
A silhouette was levitating in the northeast part of the room. That musculature, that posture of authority, without knowing it, Korr began to breathe with some difficulty, and something told him this would end irremediably badly.
His workshop—his workshop would not survive by the time the sun decided to rise from the violet horizon in the morning.
The glass shelf with the landscape paintings that no one on Viltrum could recognize, and the modular artifacts arranged in the configuration Korr had left after tinkering with them the day before, and the other objects of interest to him.
Everything was exposed to the sight of this man, this supposed father, the great General Vorath.
Vorath turned slowly toward the direction of the two, and his dark eyes fixed on them with an eerie coldness.
His eyes, like two abysses devoid of the concept of happiness, swept over the mess again, with a bitter expression never seen before.
Without either of them being able to find a place to hide from that merciless being, they could only feel that contained fury, projected from the clenching of his tight fists and his bared teeth.
Vorath was furious.
"Shit," Korr thought in panic, and guided by instinct, he ran as fast as his legs would allow, reaching forward, long before Syra-Vel could stop him.
And filling himself with all the courage he could muster from where there was none, he stopped three meters from his father, straightened his back with the rigidity of a recruit facing his superior, and brought his right fist to his chest in the salute authorized by the empire.
"For the glory of Argal, this native greets the great General."