by Victor Milán
She shared what he was. His wakening in pain, the slow resolution of a universe of unknown phenomena into discrete images. The happiness, very human and childlike, he drew from discovering new facts about the world outside, new capabilities within himself. She relived the experiences his sensory analogues had provided during the scenarios, and was pleased that they had mimicked human senses well—though there were subtle synthesthetic differences that intrigued her, the blue-green taste of coolness in early morning, the soft mauve touch of an azalea blossom’s scent.
It was as if O’Neill had just emerged from chrysalis, reborn, remolded. She knew with senses no human had ever possessed: the itch of data hidden in a memory file; the cool spelunking stealth of invading a Gen-5 memory, stealing gently past Cerberus security routines, as though through some role-play dungeon of her college days; scenting the mountain breeze that swept the citadel with particle receptor/ analyzers as sensitive as a moth’s, radar molding the sensuous folds of the valleys around, seeing and hearing at once all that transpired within the purview of the audiovisual pickups dotted around the fortress; the electrical tingle of data incoming, sexual, elative.
She could scarcely make herself do anything but immerse herself in rapport, while her assistants ran the lab, and the doctors warned that her condition was deteriorating. It meant little to her. All that mattered was sharing in the beauty that was TOKUGAWA.
* * * * *
Yoshimitsu Shigeo hunched over the white desk in his office down among the roots of the great citadel. His collar was open, his face was speckled with sweat, and his eyes were the eyes of a hunted animal.
The office overlooked the nerve center of the citadel—and, indeed, the entire latter-day fiefdom that was Yoshimitsu Telecommunications Corporation. It was a large semicircular room, its curved wall lined with consoles where soft-spoken technicians in headsets monitored the organism that was YTC and its various interests through cable links, satellite broadcasts, tie-ins to the ubiquitous datanets. This was the nexus through which communication flowed, where shipments and stock prices, weather conditions, the mercurial political situations in the many countries where YTC did business, the doings of rivals, the progress of important R&D projects, were all noted and analyzed.
Above the height of a meter and a half the entire curving wall was one large flat screen. Rectangles of image—a false-color radar map of the weather over the northern island of Hokkaido, a graph showing the price performance of several commodities in the Jakarta stock market over the last six months, a many times magnified text display from a news-net service describing a clash between Australian and Brazilian aircraft in the South Pacific—danced salamander attendance on the busy techs. A raised dais with ramps at either end and a padded railing ran along the semicircle’s base. Shigeo’s office, like the two either side, gazed out over the busy scene through a nonreflecting window.
Furtively his tongue moistened his lips. If anyone finds out what I’m up to, he thought, it’s over. My father will disinherit me—at last. And I’ll no doubt end my days in prison.
The thought perversely gave him strength. He was doing something bold for the first time in his life. Something… vital.
Nobody listens to me. I’m president of the corporations but nobody listens. They’re all mesmerized by that madwoman O’Neill. The computer the gaijin bitch had brought to life was a menace. He’d told them; they wouldn’t listen. After that dumpy linguist freaked out, he thought he’d finally carried the day, that the monster called TOKUGAWA would be decommissioned, destroyed.
And then O’Neill pulled a rabbit out of her fucking hat.
He shook himself all over, like an animal shaking water from its fur. They wouldn’t listen to him. His father had let him know that if he tried to force the issue, he would lose—with concomitant loss of face. No, dammit, he couldn’t touch the filthy machine.
But he could take steps. And then, when what he’d prophesied came to pass and the monster got out of control, he and he alone could save the situation. Oh, and wouldn’t they be grateful then?
He laughed. Laughter started to slip away from him like a horse with the bit in its teeth. With an effort he controlled it, smoothed hair back from his forehead.
Just a few more days, he told himself, feeling the sterile white walls start to crowd. Just a few more days, and I’ll have drawn the monster’s teeth.
CHAPTER 13
+
With his servant trotting dutifully at his heels, bowed under the weight of the beautifully hand-rubbed teak box on his head, the tea master made his awestruck way through the bustling streets of Edo, capital of the Tokugawa family that had ruled Japan for two hundred years. Retainer to a provincial lord who had come to spend his sankin-kotai year in the capital under the shogun’s watchful eye, the tea master, used to calmer, rural Kyushu, was astonished by the great city, its tumult and variety. The neighborhoods of the heimin, the commoners, walled wards compact and well kept for all their crowding, sullen knots of men standing on the corners suspiciously eyeing passersby, puffing from their remarkable iron pipes, long as a man’s arm, or holding them insouciantly over rough-clad shoulders; dormitory gossip said they wielded the pipes, kiseru, with the same skill and deadly effect as a samurai his sword. The grand processions of provincial lords in their shaded palanquins, preceded by warriors and vassals bearing standards and favorite falcons. The looming yashiki mansions of the daimyo with their granite fortress walls enclosing cool pine shaded gardens.
He came into a great market under a silken canopy of sky, jostling through crowds, admiring the stalls on every hand where one might buy vegetables from the country, ink pots and brushes and sheets of clean white paper, colorful ceremonial kites in the guise of carp; here a charcoal burner with blackened hands hawked his wares, there a puppeteer enacted a kabuki drama with brightly colored puppets, while a joruri singer kept up the narration in a thin high chant. Truly, there are many wonderful things to see in the capital, he thought. But I wonder if bustling Edo has a place for the calm serenity of cha-do, the Way of Tea.
Something bumped his elbow. He turned, mumbling apology, to find himself staring into the scowling face of a young samurai dressed in splendid silken garments with the mon of a great house on the breast, his head shaved to the crown in front, his hair bound in a topknot. “Clumsy animal!” the warrior hissed, hand going to the hilt of his katana. “I’ll teach you manners.
The tea master tensed for death. Then the warrior saw the two swords thrust through his sash, the dai-sho he carried to identify himself as a member of the warrior class in service to a lord, and therefore technically samurai—and which he’d never used. The young bushi smiled. “You’re buke, eh? Good. Meet me by the Great Bridge on the Tokaido tomorrow at sunup, to atone for your clumsiness.”
The crowd had melted away like snow from a hot stone; no one wanted to be in sword’s reach when the buke, the warrior nobility, disputed among themselves. The tea master looked around wildly as if for help. Everyone avoided his gaze. The servant stood loyally at his back, eyes downcast. The young warrior continued to stand, arms akimbo, sneering at him. He wants me to buy him off, he thought. The idea tempted him; he was a young man yet, and there were all the splendors of the Floating World to know. Then: no. I can’t be a coward. It would shame my family. He stared down at the cobblestones until the young samurai turned away with a swirl of wide sleeves and was gone in the crush.
Slowly the crowd noises began to collect about him again. His servant looked to him in anguish. “What will you do now, master?”
The tea master raised his face to look at the afternoon sun.
I won’t see you again, he thought. “I must find a kenjutsu instructor.” He set his jaw. “At least he can show me how to die well.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“No, no, no, no. That’s a sword, not a hoe.” The fencing master shook his head. “There’s no use. I can’t even give you the appearance of a swordsman in one afternoon.”
The tea master lowered the katana, unconsciously holding it away from him. “I knew you couldn’t teach me defense in such a short time, sensei,” he said.
The teacher studied him; diffidently he returned the attention. The swordsman was a compact, mustached man in his forties, with a topknot but with the front of his head unshaven. He operated a prestigious fencing academy on the outskirts of the capitals to which the tea master had come in late morning with his servant to wait in the exercise yard, begging an audience. Students had been sent to drive him away, but he was so obviously distraught—and a member of the buke, as well—that eventually they took him to see the master. Touched by the tea master’s plight, the teacher agreed to do what he could to help him.
Which, it seemed, would be little enough. The tea master had little aptitude for the Way of the Sword. The instructor looked at him hard for a moment, then suddenly nodded. “I’ve an idea. You’re a master of cha-no-yu, hot water for tea?” Hesitantly, the tea master nodded. “Good. Then will you make tea for me?”
The master fluttered his hands in consternation. “But this is so informal! Impossible to conform to the canons of temae, to achieve the proper etiquette without preparations the proper setting”
The sword master smiled grimly. “These are unusual circumstances, are they not? Come.”
He ushered him into a dormitory hall, to his own modest chambers. The servant brought the polished tea case, and, reluctantly, the master began to unpack the utensils. He looked up. “Sweets should be consumed before the tea is drunk, to prepare the palate. But I have no sweets.”
“I will forego the sweets.”
Uncertain that it was respectful of the ceremony to go through with it under these terrifically irregular circumstances, the tea master took out the portable brazier, carefully molded the fine ash within into a depression, carefully stacked several small pieces of charcoal within and lit the brazier. When enough of the charcoal was covered with white ash, he placed an iron kettle upon the brazier and filled it with water brought to him by a silent, respectful student. Waiting for the water to boil, he wiped his tea scoop studiously with a silk cloth and took out the lacquered tea caddy from the hardwood box. When the water was hot, he ladled a little into an earthenware bowl he’d made himself wiped it dry with a linen cloth. Deliberately he scooped the proper amount of green tea into the bowl, added water, stirred it with a bamboo whisk. The familiar routine calmed him, drove away all thought of his terrible predicament. There was only him, and the tea, and the late-afternoon serenity on which the shouts of the students at sword practice in the yard outside could not impinge.
When the tea was ready, he lifted the bowl with both hands and handed it to the sensei. The fencing master accepted it with both hands, his eyes on the tea master. He consumed the tea in the three ritual sips, slurping the last appreciatively. He wiped the place where his mouth had touched the bowl with a cloth, then set it on the tatami before him, “There is nothing for me to teach you.”
The tea master bowed his head. “You are right, sensei. I have no aptitude for manly arts. Forgive me for wasting your time—”
“‘The Way of the Warrior is death.’” The swordsman’s voice cut across his like a blade. “So the Ha Gakure instructs us. And you have nothing to learn about the art of dying.”
The tea master questioned with his eyebrows. “When you made the tea, you abandoned yourself. You had no thought, no intention; there was nothing but tea and temae.” He pondered a minute, resting his hands on his thighs. At length he nodded. “Before you meet your opponent tomorrow, sit down and compose yourself as if you were about to make the tea. When he comes, draw your long sword and hold it above your head with both hands, and close your eyes. When you hear him shout, strike with all your might. In this way, you will not only avoid disgrace, you will probably succeed in achieving a double kill.”
The tea master gazed at him in amazement, scarcely wishing to believe him. Hot and wild as a brushfire, elation crackled within him. He could do as instructed. He would die in a manner worthy of a samurai.
As next morning rose he sat waiting by the northern end of the Great Bridge of the Eastern Sea Circuit, which led to the imperial capital of Kyoto, under the watchful eyes of guards in lacquered breastplates and helmets who held their spears with negligent alertness. His servant knelt nearby, shivering in the dawn cold. His teak box of tea things he had by his side. He did not open it and take out the implements, though he wished to handle them one last time; that would be disrespectful under these circumstances. But the very nearness of them helped him repose his spirit.
The sun came up behind a shoji screen of clouds. The young samurai approached, all full of swagger, followed by several comrades, trading banter and wagers, and a bakufu official come to witness the fight to make sure the forms were observed. “Ready to apologize for your clumsiness? Perhaps if you give me a gift, I’ll let you live”
The tea master raised his eyes. “I will not apologize.” To his astonishment his voice did not quaver. He stood and drew his katana. In his mind he imagined it was a tea scoop, and somehow it didn’t feel as clumsy in his hands as it did the day before. Somehow it felt… right.
He smiled. “Are you ready, then? It’s a lovely morning for dying”
But the young bravo was backing away from him. The awful calm in the tea master’s face unnerved him. Truly, here was one living as though already dead. “It’s done,” he muttered under his breath to the official witness. “There is no quarrel.” He quickly turned and almost ran off, the ground mist swirling about his sandaled feet.
The tea master watched him go. Slowly, half regretfully, he sheathed the sword.
-
The scene of the bridge in milky dawnlight faded from O’Neill’s mind, she smiled in satisfaction. She had not been en rapport during the scenario; she never was when she monitored TOKUGAWA’s lessons, so that she wouldn’t risk influencing his judgment. Later, when TOKUGAWA’s responses had been recorded, she would relive it in full rapport.
She was pleased indeed at his responses to this scenario. It was based on a supposedly real incident of the early nineteenth century, and his actions had approximated those of the historical protagonist. Of course, the scenario had been structured to guide him subtly along the path O’Neill wished him to take. Emiko’s fine hand with such manipulation was sorely missed; it was fortunate indeed that they had guided TOKUGAWA past the thorny stages of childhood and adolescence analogue before her mishap.
O’Neill was especially proud that TOKUGAWA had decided to face the brash young samurai, despite the certainty of death facing his dream persona. His behavior as a prehuman hunter-gatherer in the earlier scenario, passively watching a pride of lions eating its prey while hunger gnawed at his belly, had made her fear that he might be inclined toward crippling hesitancy, or cowardice even. His behavior in today’s “dream” laid that fear to rest.
—Did I do well, Elizabeth?
The words formed in her mind as if spontaneously. TOKUGAWA had learned to modulate the Kliemann Coil’s fields within the helmet so as to be able to “read” her thoughts and project his own into her mind, even when the direct interface was inactive. It made her wonder if there was something to psychic phenomena, thought transference at least, which she’d always dismissed as nonscientific claptrap.
“You did very well, my dear.”
—It’s an odd thing, Doctor—Elizabeth.
“What, dear?”
—When I was performing the ceremony, I knew what I was doing, and I really did feel what the sensei said—no mind, no intention, nothing but the ritual.
Even without the rapport, she sensed his confusion.
—And yet it was all something that had been programmed into me, like the parameters of the ceremony itself, I myself had no feel for what was happening; only my dream persona did.
Frowning, she shook her head as far as the confines of the helmet would permit. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that the s
ame thing?”
—I don’t think so. It’s like a counterfeit. Just as these scenarios are counterfeits of human experience. Not that that’s a bad thing—overriding O’Neill’s protest—simply the way things are; I’m learning real lessons from imaginary experiences. But I won’t truly know anything the way I knew the tea ceremony in that scenario. A pause. I wish that I did.
“But that’s silly, TOKUGAWA. You have access to almost the entire knowledge of the human race. You know more than any human being ever has.”
—It’s not the same thing. You’ve used the analogy: I’m like a child in a library. My consciousness, and the databases I have access to, are two entirely separate entities. Just like the books and the child’s memory. The sort of—of certainty, of serenity, I felt in the scenario… that requires real experience. Not merely having more input fed into my mass-data storage.
“We’ll have to take care of that someday.” She wasn’t at all sure they could; she wasn’t entirely clear as to the distinction TOKUGAWA was striving for. With luck he’ll forget the whole thing, she thought, glad for once the rapport device wasn’t on.
“Activate interface,” she said aloud.
A rushing, sweet flowing together of mind and mind, bringing with it almost physical ecstasy. How could I ever have thought this was anything but beautiful?
—You weren’t accustomed to it, before. And I didn’t know how to control my side of the rapport as well.
For a time she let him feel directly of the pride and pleasure she felt in him. Are you ready to replay it, TOKUGAWA? I want to feel it as you felt it.
