by S A Asthana
Akiyama still said nothing.
“We must play this in a way beneficial to our people,” Etsuji continued while caressing the edges of his goatee with a thumb and forefinger. “The last thing we want is war. We can show them our displeasure through trade as father planned.”
No words from Akiyama. But there was a grunt. It was agreement of sorts.
“Oh, Ets,” Yukito jeered and leaned back in his chair. “Always a good little daddy’s boy.” With a crunched face, he mocked, “Can’t even hide your puppet strings anymore.”
“Yukito!” the eldest warned. He boomed just like his father.
“Let me say what I must, dear brother.” Yukito set down a whiskey tumbler on the table. “You might think you’re ready to take Father’s place in a month, but the truth couldn’t be further removed.”
“You insult me,” Etsuji stood. Marie’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. This was a family dynamic she hadn’t been aware of.
“I simply say what I see,” Yukito continued, his wispy voice dipped in poison, “and I see someone not strong enough to stand up to those red aggressors.”
Etsuji took a deep breath. An uneasy silence stretched for some seconds. Reo looked on, his baby face long with concern.
“Since we are talking about what we see,” Etsuji said, “let me offer my view.”
Yukito crossed his arms as if to shield himself against admonishment. The heir continued, “I see a weak euphoria addict who cannot discern his right from his left.”
Yukito scoffed. “You are blind then.”
“Silence! I see a man, now almost 30, who could have been the Head of Technology for our great city,” Etsuji continued, “but gave up the opportunity for this prestigious post, because he thought himself larger. I see a man who brims with jealousy — a man who so desperately wants what he cannot have. I see a man who slithers into his father’s harem because he thinks it is his. I see… a snake.”
The tension was palpable. Reo kept quiet, as did his father. Akiyama simply continued eating undeterred like one who’d grown accustomed to his children’s bickering. It was Yukito’s turn to stand. He hissed, “A snake, am I? Then what will the little fox playing dress up in dragon’s clothes do about the snake?” He pointed at his brother and ridiculed, “Will he bite or just whine from the corner?”
Etsuji removed his suit jacket, his dress shirt unable to mask his thick torso, and he moved towards his brother. “I will show you a bite if—”
“Enough!” Akiyama roared. The walls shook, or was it Marie’s imagination?
The three sons looked to their father wide eyed. Children being scolded. “Etsuji, take your seat.” The eldest promptly followed the command. Yukito sneered and prepared to sit back down as well, when Akiyama interrupted, “Leave us, Yukito.”
“But, father, I—”
“I said leave us.” Akiyama cast a stare so sharp Marie thought it might cut flesh from bone. “Everything Etsuji has said is correct. If you were in the right state of mind, you would understand. I have given you everything and yet, you still want what is not yours.”
“Father, I have instincts better suited for the role you wish to give my brother,” Yukito spat back. “Why box me in with tradition?”
Standing up, Akiyama leaned forward with his knuckles resting on the table. “You will never be emperor, Yukito. Even if you were my eldest, I wouldn’t have given you the responsibility. It is beyond you. You dishonor us.” The words had punch. They echoed in the hall. “You… dishonor… us….us”
Yukito threw his tumbler to the floor, shattering it into pieces and stormed out like a petulant child. He brushed past Marie’s curtain, and she shriveled further back so as not to call attention to herself. As the footsteps waned within an adjoining hallway, Akiyama coughed.
“Father, you must rest,” Reo advised and patted his back. “These talks are not good for your health. Don’t worry about Yukito. He may be loud, but he is harmless.”
Akiyama sat back down and the coughing subsided. The responsibilities and stresses of leading had clearly taken a toll. He was seventy years into his reign, after all.
Etsuji comforted him with a warm smile. “Only one more month, father. Then you don’t have to worry about all this.”
Marie spied Yukito’s empty chair — it fueled something hot within her. Perhaps it was desperation for power, perhaps it was ego, but whatever the case, it thrust her into the hall’s sun-bright lighting. Akiyama’s eyes widened. His sons followed his gaze. For a moment, nothing was said. It was as if it were the opening of a controversial play, its star having just stepped out for a monologue. All eyes and ears trained toward Marie, the Parisian debutante.
“I-I can help with the t-transition,” she stammered. Get a fucking grip. You’re a goddess, after all — stand your ground. “I know the pressures of this job and I can be a great advisor–”
“You’re not allowed here!” Reo spat in a thick Nipponese accent and stood, his finger pointed at her.
“How dare you come out here?” Etsuji said. “How much did you hear?”
Marie aimed her answer directly at Akiyama. “I’m just trying to help.” His sons didn’t matter. Mere minnows in the presence of a whale.
“I could have you executed,” Reo pressed. “How did you get past my guards?”
Marie’s jaw clenched. Reo had been an impediment since the start. As police chief he was the primary reason she’d had her tentacles retracted and locked indefinitely. He’d cut her access to euphoria. She was a thorn requiring pruning.
“You do not belong here,” Akiyama thundered at her. The words popped whatever confidence Marie mustered. She deflated like a balloon. He commanded his youngest, “Escort her back to where she belongs.”
“I belong with you!” she protested, her voice tearing at its seams.
Reo came face to face with her. “You belong in the harem.” He grabbed her by the arm, ready to lead.
Pulling away, she barked, “No! I can go by myself.”
“Fine.” Reo leaned into her ear and whispered, “Do not make this mistake again, or I will have her highness shot.”
How fucking dare he talk to me this way? Marie pivoted her glare to Akiyama but he had his head down, his attention turned back to dinner. The two-faced bastard. Am I not his desert rose?
She turned and marched out the dining hall. Upon entering the hallway, she melted into its shadows. The darkness cooled her hot skin. It calmed the anger some.
“You and I — our place is not with them, your highness,” a ghostly specter whispered into her ear.
Marie’s head snapped from right to left, and her eyes speared the shadows about her. A sinewy silhouette stood against the wall, its frame darker than darkness, as if it was Hades itself. Yukito stared back at her.
CHAPTER 5: BASTIEN
On the west side of Nippon One, Nox pushed through the crowd and shouted over the buzz, “Welcome to Akihabara.”
Bastien took in the neighborhood with quick glances. The streets were densely packed with electronics retailers dealing everything with a current — virtual reality headsets, smart shades outfitted with artificial augmentation capabilities, and personal robotic assistants built in the form of dogs, cats, and more. Specialty parts shops lined the streets, and electronics megastores such as Sony and Yodobashi Camera engaged in fierce retail competition. Other giant stores stocked millions of tech components, and tiny outlets made up for their size with a sizzling passion for their chosen interest, be it manga, anime, pop idols or games. Many stores offered duty-free shopping to help stretch the yen further. This was capitalism, something Bastien wasn’t familiar with, at its most efficient.
Subcultures fixated with gaming and figure collecting displayed prominently in Akihabara, otherwise known as “Electric Town.” The Nipponese took pride in mirroring neighborhoods of old-world Tokyo city. To them, the metropolis had simply evolved, never fallen under World War Three’s weight.
A couple of teenage
girls with dyed pink hair and plaid schoolgirl uniforms bumped into Bastien, giggled and then disappeared behind him into the crowd. Akihabara was equal parts lights and steel, with a pinch of concrete and glass for good measure. It all added up to a concoction of pure entertainment and character. An onslaught upon the senses. It was like being transported back to the old world, as if the nuclear holocaust had never occurred. The cataclysm might have been forgotten if it weren’t for Earth hanging over the scene, its blues and browns interrupting the otherwise dark sky.
The blackness of space was unrelenting. The successors of the first wave of lunar settlers still recounted how some of their ancestors hung themselves to end the depression. The men, women and children had never been able to adapt their circadian rhythms to the new environment — lunar days lasting roughly twenty-nine Earth days, days of little sunlight and warmth, and zero prospect of the sky ever being blue.
Despite those early difficulties, humanity persisted. The heirs to that first wave’s legacy were content. Measured doses of serotonin enhancers and sleeping pills helped accustom them to their surroundings. It was big business to ensure bliss now. A large sign flashed alongside a skyscraper reading, “Sony Serotonin & Sleep: The People Fixer.”
Nippon One was a testament to the Japanese’s grit. They’d bounced back after both World War Two and Three and thrived. The only real difference this time around, based on Bastien’s limited understanding of the culture, was the Nipponese now wholeheartedly despised foreigners. The last great war was a result of non-Japanese conflict, after all. It explained the glares Bastien received from those in the crowd.
Nox pointed to a three-storied arcade. “Here we are.” Glass walls showcased kids and adults alike glued to screens, all playing games of every genre. “We can’t go through the front entrance. Follow me.”
He led Bastien past the main double doors and scampered into a side alley. Despite its shadows and neglect, the pathway remained clean, completely devoid of litter. Cleanliness was the norm in Nippon One. The areas where it wasn’t considered a part of daily life were those inhabited by gaijins — one more reason for their derision by the majority.
Nox walked up to a door at the alley’s end and tapped in a passcode into the doorknob’s keypad. An entrance revealed itself — dark stairs disappeared into murky depths. He motioned for Bastien to follow and stepped in, adding the command, “Turn on lights.” The stairs lit up, each a different color than its neighbor. There was a bright red one followed by a blue one and then a green, and so on.
The colorful trail led down to a sprawling space, one outfitted with all manner of computer technology. Tall servers sat next to terminals with dark screens displaying white lines of code. Thick cables intertwined together along concrete walls and connected everything within the data center. The bright space — a rectangular room lit by a string of fluorescent light rods — was littered with a handful of characters resembling Nox in their dress. A tall woman stood to the right, her lean frame outfitted in form-fitting leather, its blackness only a shade darker than her skin. She belonged to a race now rare — African. The cropped hair, delicate features, high cheekbones and deep black eyes made for a stunning woman.
Three others were medium-sized men, their dark leather folds shining under the lights. None of them were of Nipponese descent, either. One was brown skinned, and the other two were white like Nox. All eyes fell upon Bastien, the yellow-eyed newbie.
“Is that him?” the tall woman asked.
“Yes, Hani.” Nox pointed. “This is him.”
There were murmurs. Smart shades were removed and terminals ignored. The leather-clad strangers all displayed a fascination for Bastien. Their smiles, however faint, brimmed with familiarity towards him. Bastien stared back, his eyes darting from face to face.
“Rogu Collective?” he queried.
“Yes, this is us,” Nox said with his hands in pockets.
Hani grinned, her eyes roaming Bastien’s frame. “I can see what she sees in him.”
“Yea, he sure looks rugged,” another noted, his well-groomed eyebrows raised and glittery pink lips parted into a smile.
Nox playfully slapped the man on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t make me jealous, Raul.” There was a shared giggle.
The brown-skinned man, rotund and spectacled, walked over with gentle hand held out in a friendly manner. “What my friends are trying to say is hello.” He shook Bastien’s hand, the weight on his body jiggling comically within the leather. Shrugging, he continued, “We are glad to have you with us. I’m Doctor Bala Subramanian Thanigaimani, but you can call me, Bala.”
“Dr. Bala,” Bastien acknowledged. He scanned the other faces. “Hani, Raul, Nox, and…” His words trailed into silence as his eyes fixed on the last face. It was pale white and punctuated by two grey orbs. The man’s steel gaze remained fixed on the new arrival, his square jaw clenched.
“Greg Jackson,” he said in a strong voice all too familiar.
“You might say, former Chief Architect of the Martian Artificial Intelligence division.”
The face, rectangle and sharp, had been both familiar and foreign to Bastien at first, but now there was no doubt of its origin. Greg had led the team that designed the program which eventually evolved into the High Council. Meeting him was unexpected. A ghost from the past, now alive once again. Greg had been a rising star in the technology division, but then one day three years back he’d deserted and escaped to Nippon One out of the blue. The stories said he most likely stowed aboard a cargo hauler. The sudden departure had caused a stir, and no one could ever place why it had occurred in the first place. This was just prior to the High Council being handed Nippon One’s reins. A replacement had been found quickly and the division had continued. But there was no doubt a great mind had been lost. Whispers accusing Nippon One of talent poaching had floated through Port Sydney’s hallways — there was precedence, after all.
“What? How?” Bastien stammered, barely grasping the man’s presence whose frame once wore neatly-pressed white lab coats. Today Greg stood covered in shiny, black leather. An upholder of process and order in days long gone was now a resident within a den of thieves.
“A story for another time,” he said unsmiling. “I think at the moment you might be more interested in meeting an old friend.”
“Belle,” Bastien said. “Where… where is she?” None of it made sense. Dr. Bala pointed to a narrow black door at the room’s end. Bastien swallowed hard. “She’s in there?”
The man nodded with a soft, infectious smile. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”
He led Bastien through a row of black servers, all dotted with blinking lights. The data center was cool to ensure its machinery didn’t overheat. Bastien exhaled and his breath swirled ahead like a fog. Perhaps it was his nervousness chilling him. What lay beyond the door? Was it truly Belle, or was this all just some trick?
He imagined spotting her standing in the middle of a large, darkened hall lit by a spotlight. She’d turn to him and say, “Why did you have to come back to New Paris? You only ended up burning down what I was trying to save.” Or something to that affect. Guilt was a persistent bully, playing imagined scenarios in his mind one after the other. Perhaps she would just punch him in the face. She had beaten him in an altercation once before — it wouldn’t be surprising if she did it again. That was, if she was truly alive.
Dr. Bala turned the doorknob slowly as if to dramatize the moment’s tension further. Another data center was revealed, this one more compact. Computer terminals, servers and intertwining cables lined the walls leaving a small space empty and cold in the middle. It was lit by a dim bulb dangling from the ceiling. A machine smell greeted them. Bastien walked to the center as the doctor turned to leave.
“Wait — where you going?” Bastien asked.
“I will let you both catch up.”
Bastien looked around with a crunched brow. “Let us both catch up? Who are you talking about?” As far as he could tell
, he was alone. Surely a strange trick was being played.
The door shut behind him with a bang. Nothing but silence remained. Clouds of dust danced under the bulb’s soft yellow light. The room was cramped and filled with a constant mechanical din. It was as if it belonged to another dimension, disconnected from reality. Bastien waited with bated breath. Where was Belle?
A low hum, as if countless processors spinning madly, escaped the dark corners. A female resounded, “Hello, Bas.”
Bastien shuddered to the core. The voice, soft and harsh all at once, belonged to Belle. He was sure of it. But she was nowhere to be seen.
“Belle…?”
The faint humming became more pronounced as seconds passed. “It’s me.” There was a coldness to the words.
With his face blank, Bastien said, “I can’t… I can’t see you.”
“… because I don’t have physical form. I live amongst data. I am data.”
Processing the response, Bastien’s eyes roamed the room’s machinery. A sleek, standalone camera with built in speaker came into view. Belle’s words echoed inside Bastien’s head — I am data.
“You are inside these servers?” he asked.
“Yes and no,” Belle answered. “I am not inside these servers, I am these servers. I am this room. I am bits and bytes.”
“I — I’m confused. How? I watched you die. How is—”
“Any of this possible?”
“Yes, exactly!”
Belle, or her mechanical likeness, explained as if talking to a child. “Whole brain emulation, at least that’s what Greg and Dr. Bala call it. It’s their brainchild, built upon decades of theoretical research. But I’m the first working model. In other words, I am the first human to have surpassed my physical limitations. An immortal as long as there’s hardware infrastructure to support my soul.”
“So… you live inside these computers?” Bastien scratched his head.
“One computer. A supercomputer,” Belle continued. “It’s high performance computing.”
Bastien released a long breath, all the while eyeing the machinery about him. It was overwhelming. “How… did… you get in there?” His technological understanding was woefully limited, a fact he credited to his meager upbringing.
