The stars are beautiful, aren't they? Reminds me of sporadic development. Scattered buildings built haphazardly along roads with no grand plan behind them. People deciding to build houses wherever they please, wasting resources and creating inefficiency out of sheer convenience. Usually, the thought would bother me, but looking up at the stars, seeing how they're placed along the sky with no discernable pattern, I feel at peace. Some things just don't need to be planned. Marisa's dead body is right here. She's in algor mortis. I only have a little bit of time before it reaches rigor mortis. It wouldn't change anything, but that's when it will really hit me. I take a look at the entrenching tool resting in my survey kit. Funny. The only time any of it has actually come in handy. I grab the tool with my free hand. The other's still gripping tightly to my prismatic compass. Getting on my knees, I begin excavating the spoil. I'm not thinking of anything in particular. It's just mechanical. The soil is well graded. It's ironic. The clearing here, right next to the downstream river, secluded and quiet. It's the absolute perfect spot for a hydro-electric station. I'll never tell the COR or the Cardónians, of course. The hole looks big enough. I grab her body. It's not warm anymore. That's the algor mortis. With moderate effort, but major stress on my legs, I drop her into the hole. Getting on my knees again, I push the spoil over her with my tool. I take one last look at her face before covering it up. She still looks beautiful. I grab her copy of the Dictation from the ship. I don't know how to use this thing. I don't usually deal with poetry. Flipping through the pages, I think that there has to be some kind of funeral rite in here. My eyes glance over the page marked Requiescats. That's gotta be it. I flip through it until I found one I like, then clear my throat and begin to read aloud. > And it was so that like the Architect above, there is one of the deceased who his children loved. And like the Architect above we do not forget, we honor their life so their creation may beget. I also take my flask out of my coat pocket and pour it on the made ground. I don't know why I do it, but I do. Then I take out my field book. > 15 vi 27. Ontembaar, N. 118° to point of rocks. Ground unsuitable. I get back in the boat and leave. Following the stars for navigation. Despite their random placement, or maybe because of it, they still have use.

It all started in Krios of '27. That was when the COR sent me to Ontembaar. I got word from my superior Enguerrand Badeaux. He walked into my office with the stride of a man who felt he could reshape the world with his word alone. "Dabinett, have you been drinking?" he asked, the disgust in his tone palpable. I had. I felt no reason to lie to him. "Yes." Enguerrand's face didn't change. "I know. You're a slave to your impulses." This was his way of trying to reshape my behavior. He always thought appealing to the tradition of the Tanner thinker Glædwine was the best way to get through to me. It wasn't, and I could clearly see through it. "There's beauty in being a slave. You're fed, you have shelter. What's a little manual labor?" Clearly wanting to change the subject, Enguerrand proceeded. "They want you to go to Ontembaar. The Council is making a proclamation soon about the mandate." "Why do they want me?" I smiled. I just liked to hear him say it. Enguerrand's eyelid twitched. "They want you on the ground to plan the Cardónian city." "What about Henri? Surely the Cardónians want a city with some le montagnard influence?" Enguerrand was livid. "They want you." "Why?" Enguerrand was already at the door. "You're to be at the docks at 0500. Don't oversleep." I took a look at the map on my wall. Ontembaar is three weeks by ship from Linolia. I don't like ships. They're so unplanned. A hundred and ten people on average, all trapped together in a metal rookery. Nevertheless, they wanted me, like Enguerrand said. I could have never resisted the siren call of having tens of thousands all using my plans. A beautifully calibrated machine that could not exist without me. I began packing my tools.

I was seasick. The noxious waft of brine wasn't helping. Staring at the churning plane of water off the verandah, I was getting the dizzying feeling that it stretched endlessly. The sea and sky just dissolved into an undifferentiated gray plane as far as I could look. I needed to distract myself. Leaving the balcony, I opened my bag and took out my grid paper, drafting triangle, and parallel rule. This was my element. I laid down some marks on the grid without thinking. Ordo ab chao, as it's called in the architecturale school. You make random marks, then try to connect them in a functional manner. They say this is how the Architect designed the world, creating order out of chaos, but I don't buy that. It's simply apophenia and horror vacui that make this work. Our brains abhor a blank space, and connecting these marks is our hardwired manner of finding meaning in sensory noise. Connecting the points, I immediately saw the perfect spot for a water channel. From that, naturally came the sluice gate and hydroelectric station. Now I saw it. Twelve chains from that, at this other mark, the only logical construction was the substation. I marked the high tension feeder line with ink. From there, the math dictated the rest. The copper mains would branch north along the towpath, while the secondary lines ran west into the planned tenements. The— KNOCK KNOCK. Someone was at the door. "I'm busy!" I yelled, aggravated at having my train of thought derailed. Twelve chains gave the transformers enough clearance from the damp spray of the tailrace, yet— KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. I slammed my hand on the table and angrily got up. Swinging the door open, I spat, "What is it?!" "Mr. Dabinett, is that you?" I didn't even look at who it was at the door. In front of me, I saw an Amaranthian boy, maybe 12 or 13. I assumed he worked down at the coal bunkers, judging by the thick layer of soot on his clothes. "Who's asking?" "My name is Naeem. I'm a huge fan of your work. I kind of want to be a planner when I grow up." "Yeah, yeah. I'm busy, kid." "Oh. I just wanted to ask if you would sign—" "Look, ammie, I'm in the middle of something important. Why don't you head back to the bunkers? And send for my turbot. I haven't gotten it yet." "…Yes, sir, Mr. Dabinett." He walked away, his head down. Good. The transmission loss would be negligible if the secondary lines ran into the main tenements. It isn't divine inspiration. It's simple math and geometry. You keep the secondary constructions away from the prime construction, and it will always work beautifully.

The Ischemic War really tore apart Ontembaar. I'd heard about the reports, but stepping off the boat and seeing it firsthand, it was no wonder they sent me. The hydro infrastructure was clearly overdrafted, no doubt due to the war effort. I glanced in horror at the bleached, crusted waterline, seeing how the timber pilings gave way to rotting riprap and stranded flatboats. Part of the dock was in rubble, which I took minor effort to step over. Naeem held my bag and walked in tandem. "I hope you can fix this, Mr. Dabinett," he squeaked in his grating prepubescent voice. "Of course I can. That's why the COR pays me the big Stands." "Stands?" he questioned. I glanced at him. "I forgot you haven't adopted them yet. Standards. The global reserve currency introduced by us. My 'superior' Badeaux actually ran a few designs by me." He looked confused. "Global reserve currency?" I grimaced as I saw his dirty fingernails clasp the bag handle. "Forget it. Just be careful with that bag. It's worth more than this whole country." The confusion subsided. "Before you leave, can you please sign this book, Mr. Dabinett? It would mean a lot to me." He handed me a ragged tome. The Beginner's Introduction to Le Montagnard Design, by Henri Legrand. "Get that book out of my face." I spat on the ground. "Pff, Le Montagnard design. Let me give you a tip, kid. Quit while you're behind. Leave urban planning to the Linolians." I took a swig from my flask. "What do you drink?" Naeem asked me. "Why do you care? It's absinthe." "Absinthe? Okay." I saw him writing it down on the front page of the book. Finally, we arrived at the customs office. I reached into my pocket and produced my passport. The guard looked up in shock. "Claude Dabinett? You're Dabinett? Wow. You look more… rugged… than I expected." My tie was loose and my hair was a mess. I never really cared. "Can I go?" "Of course, sir. We have a lorry prepared for you." I took my bag and was about to walk through the gate when Naeem stopped me again. "What do you want, kid?" I said exasperatedly. "Is Linolia's opera house as beautiful in person as it is in the pictures?" "More so." I watched him toss the book into the water and slowly shuffle away.