by Eric Flint
As Kensu entered, he bowed deeply, then waited for Yukio to speak.
"I must focus on the Board and our investors, as well as on the new RAM technology, and, of course, the memory project," Yukio said. "You must keep pushing on the Vladivostok deal." Yukio watched closely to see if Kensu would react; the man had fought for months against this deal, and Yukio's win of Board approval for it had cost Kensu his shot at the job Yukio now held. Kensu showed nothing, so Yukio continued. "TIOKO needs cash. Make sure they get it from us." Acquiring the Vladivostok-based TIOKO, the Tikho-okeanskoye Morye shipping and services conglomerate, would give Fujiura control of its trade paths east and west, enlarge its service offerings, and ultimately attract new large customers in both the Americas and eastern Europe.
Yukio turned away from Kensu as the man bowed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Continuing to run the business was necessary, but it did not make Yukio happy. He swiveled his chair to face the window and pushed the volume control upward until the amplified sounds of the streets below filled the room, until he was bathing in the rush of life, and then he leaned back and closed his eyes.
* * *
Late the next afternoon, Masataro led Ishiwa into Yukio's office.
"We have done all we can," Ishiwa said. "The scan and download are complete, so we have captured all the . . . raw data we know how to capture."
"So I may now access his memories?" Yukio asked.
Ishiwa stared at the floor before responding, "Not exactly." He looked up at Yukio. "As I warned, we have never completely succeeded, even in partial scans."
"Your past efforts do not matter now," Yukio said. "What is the state of his memories?"
"We have downloaded from his brain all the information we know how to find. We believe we missed nothing, but we have no way to be sure. The bigger problem is assembling the mass of raw data into memories you can access. Our latest software is working on it, but progress is slow and unpredictable."
"Do you have any complete memories?"
"We may," Ishiwa said, "but we cannot be sure. Our assembly programs have yielded several files that pass the few filters we've been able to construct. Per your instructions, however, the files are in the private storage area we set up. Because no one but you is allowed to access them, we have no way of knowing for sure what the programs have produced." Ishiwa cleared his throat and looked again at the floor. "Perhaps when it is convenient, you could—"
"Of course," Yukio said. "Leave me. I'll check now and let you know."
Yukio pulled out of his bottom right desk drawer the special laptop Ishiwa's team had prepared. A thick fiber cable snaked from its back into a network connection buried under the desk. A second, slightly thinner cable led to a thick pair of VR goggles that sat on the laptop. Yukio opened the laptop and let the retinal scanner verify his identity. He put on the goggles, which for the moment were clear and silent, and opened the first of the three memory files in the directory before him.
The goggles flashed into action, and sound poured from the integrated headphones. He was in his office, the Matsushima display playing on the window. Two men sat across from him: Yukio himself, but younger, and Kensu. Yukio felt strange, outside himself, as if he had split in two. He glanced at the keyboard beneath his—no, his father's—fingers, heard the gentle click of the keys, and then looked at the center of the office window, where a chart of sales projections replaced Matsushima. The chart sloped gently downward in the enterprise services sector, the department Yukio was then running. Yukio flushed with the same shame he had felt at that time, at having to report that a department of his had lost money. His stomach knotted at the memory of the shame, and at the anger he had felt from his father. As his gaze—his father's gaze—shifted to the younger Yukio in front of him, he realized how clearly his younger self had showed those same emotions, and he was even more embarrassed for himself. He shook his head: He could only imagine the shame and anger his father had felt.
Yukio stopped the memory playback. The goggles cleared. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, calming himself. That meeting had convinced him both that he hated his job and that those feelings were irrelevant, because he could not let his father down.
After a few minutes, he tried each of the other two memories available to him. They were useless, jumbles of flashing colors and discordant sounds.
He called Ishiwa. "The first in the list is real. The others are not; delete them."
"Yes, sir," Ishiwa said. "Should we continue to run the assembly programs?"
"Of course," Yukio said. "We will hope they will yield more memories the company can use." He broke the connection before Ishiwa could speak again.
* * *
When Kensu arrived, Yukio was studying the manufacturing plan for the new RAM module, whose flexed nano-tubes delivered the largest single-module memory capacity ever available—enough capacity, Yukio mused, that one module could hold the entire raw download of his father's mind. The module and the new technology it embodied should vault Fujiura into the lead in that crucial market segment.
Kensu interrupted Yukio's contemplation. "TIOKO refused our offer." The man almost smiled as he told Yukio the news.
"How much did you offer?"
"I started low, of course," Kensu said, "with the share price as of close of business yesterday."
For a second Yukio wanted to hit Kensu, but he forced himself to lean back in his chair and reply calmly, "I thought we agreed on offering a premium."
"Yes," Kensu said, "and we will, but I saw no reason not to try a lower price first and perhaps save us a considerable amount."
Yukio stared across his desk at Kensu until the man looked slightly downward. "The reason, as I believe we discussed, is that we are not the only ones pursuing them, and now we have risked offending their Board. Kensu," he paused until the man looked at him, "though I appreciate your reservations about this deal, I am sure you also appreciate that I have committed to our Board that we will make it happen. If you would rather not work on it . . ."
"I will contact them again," Kensu said, "and make our apologies, as well as a new offer."
"Thank you." Yukio stood and bowed to Kensu, remembering his father's advice to always be most polite after a victory.
Kensu returned the bow and left.
Yukio's phone flashed; his mother. He accepted the call and winced as he saw her slight smile; she had heard the news. Her information sources within the company had always amazed him.
"I'm sorry the procedure did not work," she said, continuing to appear to be anything but sorry.
"On the contrary, mother, it did. I have already reviewed the beginning of one memory, and I am confident our software will assemble more."
"Perhaps I misunderstood," she said, "but—"
Yukio cut her off. "Some of the assembled memory files have proven to be worthless, but we are far from done." He fought to stay quiet, but her happiness at the failed memories was more than he could take. "Aren't you at all sorry about those memories we may lose? They are father's memories, and now they may be gone."
"No," she said. "They were gone when he died, as they should be. His spirit must move on, and so must ours. We have our memories of him; that is enough."
Maybe for you,thought Yukio, but not for me. You knew him for decades, even before Fujiura and Matsushima became his life. I never knew him, not really.
"So you insist on continuing?" she said.
Her question angered him further. "Yes. The software is running non-stop across the largest grid we can spare. I'm sure we'll be able to restore more memories, maybe many, many more. Memories that will be very useful to the company."
"To you, you mean."
Yukio refused to rise to the bait. "Yes, to me, as the head of the company."
His mother sighed and leaned forward until her face completely filled the display. "Let him go, Yukio. I know he gave you less than you wanted, but he's gone, and whatever you hav
e of him now is all you can ever have. I wish you two had been closer, but he was always so busy, so dedicated, so—" she smiled. "—so like you."
I am not like him, Yukio thought. Not at all. I would never have a child I did not want and could not find the time to raise. This job is my duty; it was his love. Yukio shook his head. Not at all like him.
"You will keep your promise?" she asked.
He had almost forgotten she was there. "Yes," he said. "I'll pick up his ashes in the morning and take them to the temple."
"Good. There are only thirty-eight days before the temple ceremony; let his spirit spend those days on Matsushima."
Yukio reached to turn off the phone. "I will, Mother, I will."
* * *
Yukio had considered driving to the red moon-crossing bridge that linked Oshima Island to the mainland and then walking to the island, but that felt wrong. His father would have taken the boat from Hon-Shiogama across Matsushima Bay, and he was carrying his father's ashes, so in the end Yukio took the boat, too. The sky glowed a clear blue a shade lighter than the water. He kept the boat's engine on full, anxious to be done with it. The hull bounced on the small waves of the bay and jarred his spine. The wind mussed his hair and made his eyes water. His skin was sticky from the salt in the air.
When he reached the small dock at the foot of the temple path, Yukio tied up the boat and removed the urn from the cabin safe. He followed the path that led from the water into the pines.
He reached the first torii gate in less than five minutes. Its cedar cross-piece was rough, worn and pocked by time. He considered going on to the temple himself, but he was in mourning and tradition forbade it. Besides, why risk angering the kami? Though he did not actually believe in those spirits, he also knew there was no point in taking such a risk. He would see the temple at the burial; no need to go there sooner. He put the urn at the gate's base, clapped his hands three times to get the attention of the priests, and bowed deeply twice. Then he sat to wait.
The sun on his face was strong but not hot, its light filling the pines with a soft glow that scattered many shades of a single golden hue. The view provided a strange contrast to the arcing lines of color that filled the Tokyo nights; he was more comfortable in the neon. At first the island seemed silent, but as he sat longer he could hear the cries of gulls on the water and the sounds of other birds he did not recognize in the trees above him. The bushes and pine trees on either side of the path occasionally rustled in the wind. Despite himself he began to relax, the ancient rhythm of the place working its way into him. For a moment he almost touched the peace he had seen his father experience on their trips here, and in that moment he glimpsed why his father had fought for this place, why he had lavished so much time and love upon it. But did a man have room in his heart for only one love? Obviously not: His father clearly loved the company and, in his own way, his wife, too. Would one more love have been so hard? Yukio stared at the urn and wondered what he would say if the ashes became his father, magically reconstituted by the kami for a moment of temptation on his death journey. But the words would not come.
He looked up and saw the priest. He had not heard the man coming. Yukio stood and bowed deeply; the priest returned the bow. Yukio picked up the urn and handed it to the priest, who bowed once more and without a word turned and headed back up the path.
* * *
The mail icon flashing on his desk's console was the only light in his office late that night. The room, which was huge by Tokyo standards, easily larger than the homes of many small families, now only hemmed him in, squeezed him, trapped him. The island wasn't what he wanted, but he missed the sense of infinite possibility that beckoned from the hazy lines where horizon blurred into water and treetops faded into air. He had hoped to regain that sense by darkening the office and erasing its boundaries; instead, the faint light from the console made the space seem even smaller.
His father would never have wasted so much time. Yukio punched up the lights and turned to the display.
His mother's request to know if he had delivered the urn sat atop the inbox. He sent her a simple typed message, unwilling to face her.
Masataro had forwarded him a note from the head of their Chinese manufacturing plant; Yukio would soon receive a prototype of the new RAM module.
Kensu wanted to discuss the latest developments in the TIOKO deal. Yukio called him at home and was pleased to see a ripple of surprise play over the man's face as he realized Yukio was still at work. "What has happened that you would not e-mail me?" he said.
"The TIOKO Board is now open to our offer," Kensu said, "but they have some requirements."
"Of course."
"Most are ones we anticipated, but the price remains a problem." Kensu hesitated before continuing. "They want a ten percent premium over today's closing price, which of course was already up on the rumor of their sale. Meeting that price in cash would leave our reserves below acceptable levels, and they are not interested in a share-swap deal. I do not see how we can continue."
Yukio knew Fujiura Corp., understood the company better than he would ever understand the trees and plants of Oshima. Fujiura was an electronic and physical organism that he, like his father, nurtured and managed. TIOKO was a necessary addition to the chain that carried the material blood of Fujiura to the far-flung parts of its corporate body, as natural as the roots of the pines that spread through the soil at Oshima. He had spent months convincing the Board, including his father, of the importance of the acquisition for Fujiura's long-term health. He was prepared in ways he had reviewed only with his father, whose final approval of the deal signaled one of the few times Yukio felt he had impressed the man.
"Our American services subsidiary has a high valuation and a shelf registration we can use for a quick offering to raise the cash. Get our brokers there to place the stock, and set a price with TIOKO now so we have a fixed target."
Kensu bowed his head slightly. "I should have thought of that. I apologize for not doing so." He looked intently at Yukio. "If you would prefer someone else finish this . . ."
You would have thought of it, Yukio wanted to say, if you had focused on completing the deal and not on avoiding it. Instead, he said, "I am confident you would have found this solution. I would have no one else complete the acquisition." Kensu was a good man, Yukio thought, a man who genuinely loved the company and who probably should be running it—who would actually enjoy running it.
Kensu bowed again, deeper this time. "Thank you. I will not let you down."
Yukio bowed, said, "Good night," and hung up.
Most of the remaining messages were routine, except for the last, which was from Ishiwa. The memory-retrieval processing was proceeding, and the software had assembled three more files. From their sizes none of the memories were long, but all, to the best of the software's very limited abilities to judge, were sufficiently complete to be worth saving. Yukio responded to the messages Masataro had not already handled, then locked his office.
He put on the goggles and started the first new memory in the directory.
He was again sitting in the office, but in an earlier version of it, a large PC filling the front right corner of the desk. An old, audio-only phone sat on his left. He watched his hands, his father's hands, come to his eyes and rub gently. He called home and heard his mother's voice, heard her initially happy greeting and then the subsequent resignation in her voice as he explained he would not be there for many hours, that he was in a pitched battle on the London exchange for a Yugoslavian manufacturing plant that would be a key element in his penetration of the rapidly growing Eastern European market.
He turned back to the screen, where columns of changing figures danced as madly as the lights in the darkening street below. The figures blurred. He walked to the office's private bathroom and stared at himself, his father, in the mirror. His face sagged with fatigue, the whites of both eyes streaked with red. He splashed water on his face—Yukio flinching as the water came at him,
for a moment lost and not realizing the water wasn't there.
He looked again at himself in the mirror and slowly shook his head. "Akako, Yukio, I am so sorry," his father said to the reflection. He dried his face and muttered, "No time to be tired." He returned to the desk and stared at the display.
The goggles cleared, and Yukio was back in his office—his office, not his father's. Yukio took off the goggles and leaned his head on the desk. The fatigue of the memory should have vanished, but he was still tired. He supposed he should have realized his father would have felt bad about working late and would get tired, that anyone would, but it had never occurred to him. He wondered why his father did not simply quit for the day and leave, but he realized instantly that in this job he, too, would never have left at such a crucial time.
He tried the other two memories, but both were worthless, incoherent jumbles of light and sound. When he finished checking them, his mail light was once again flashing. Yukio yielded to its summons.
