by Neil Clarke
2.
Sudden pinpricks of pain made Takumi Naoto open his eyes. For a long while he wasn’t sure where he was.
He was in his room, of course, about seven or eight meters square. A tatami mat took up half of it, with the other half occupied by a computer desk. There was no other furniture in the room, but then again, these two things were all he needed.
Naoto sat up, the painful pressure in his bladder making him keenly aware that he had been lying immobile for almost eight hours. Not having eaten for the duration, his blood sugar level was dangerously low, which set off the health monitor on his wrist. If he didn’t eat soon, the monitor was going to conclude that he was in a coma and send out a distress call to the hospital nearby.
Naoto went to the washroom to relieve himself, filled a cup with mineral water, and returned to the computer desk where he opened a bottle of concentrated nutrition pills. The pills contained almost all nutrients needed by the body and suppressed the secretion of stomach acid—taking five pills was equivalent to eating a full meal. Of course the pills lacked something in the taste department, being closer to plastic foam than actual food, but given that Naoto experienced the joys of foie gras, shoro mushrooms, and caviar every day, he paid it little mind.
Naoto stuffed ten pills into his mouth and washed them down with gulps of cold water. He turned on his computer and brought up a window into which he tapped a series of apparently meaningless numbers and symbols, his fingers flying over the keyboard. He was, in fact, writing code for a financial management application, an utterly boring job whose only redeeming feature was paying relatively well. However, he limited himself to working no more than two hours each day, an amount of time sufficient to earn the funds to cover his rent and nutrition pills. He wasn’t interested in wasting even a minute of his life on such lowly concerns beyond the absolute minimum.
I’ve got to work faster, Naoto thought as he typed away. I can’t afford so much separation. This is going to ruin the hard-earned psycho-coordination link . . . I’ve got to get back to it . . . Just five more minutes . . .
But someone was calling him. Frowning, Naoto switched over to the chat window, where a chubby girl with short hair appeared: his neighbor, Asakura Minami. She showed him an expression intended to be kawaii. “Naoto! Are you there?”
Such useless chatter! “Yes.”
“I have something cool to tell you: Charles is here!”
More wasted words. “Yes, I’m aware of that. And?”
“It’s Cha-ru-zu!” Minami emphasized every syllable deliberately. “Charles Mann, your idol! Just now, he turned down the medal ceremony to go on a date with Aoi Masa. It’s all over the web. Still, I heard that he was going to be signing books in Ginza and meeting fans tonight. What an opportunity! Why don’t we go see him together? I have a copy of his The Other Shore of the Pacific and I’m going to get it signed—”
“Sorry, no can do.” Naoto didn’t even wait for her to finish. “I’m busy. Work.”
“You’re holed up in your room all day working. Can’t you take a two-hour break and go out? And it’s Charles—”
“I’m on deadline.”
“But—”
“Sorry. Bye!” He closed the window.
What a silly woman. She just wasted a whole minute of my precious time. Naoto knew that Minami liked him, but after he’d been with famous actresses and models like Elizabeth White, Mariana Kingston, Paula Claudia, and Yang Ziwei, it was impossible for him to be excited by Minami’s round, plain face.
Moreover, the presence of Minami always reminded him of who he really was, and the last thing he needed was himself.
No, it was impossible to stay in this room any longer; even a second more would drive him crazy. Naoto finished his job in a rush, pushed the computer away, and lay down on his tatami mat, closing his eyes. His body was starting to digest the nutrition pills. Even though his stomach protested at the artificial nutriment, he no longer felt so hungry. He could go another eight hours.
He initiated the connection and sensory data began to flow over the link. Neural pulses were converted into electromagnetic waves, which were converted into neutrino beams, and then back to electromagnetic waves and neural pulses again.
Vestibular systems synchronized: I am standing where he stands; tactile sensations synchronized: a breeze caresses my skin, full of the warmth of spring and the moisture of the Pacific; hearing synchronized: the susurration of the wind and the sensual twitter of birds; sight synchronized: patches of lively pink and translucent white, coalescing into thousands of blooming cherry trees.
The lovely kimonoed female figure kneeling under that cherry tree turns and smiles, her perfect features even more beautiful than the blossoms: Masa Aoi!
And I am Charles, the one and only Charles.
3.
Pegasus landed next to a small lake near Hakone.
Masa was waiting for him in a shore-side cherry grove where the flowers were as magnificent as the clouds at sunset. A pure white picnic blanket was spread on the ground, on which were laid plates of refined sashimi and flasks of sake. Dressed in a loose green satin kimono, the kneeling Masa greeted him in perfect English, her voice as sensual and soft as the fabric draped around her.
“Hello, Charles.”
“Hello, Masa-chan.” Charles sat down next to her, his arm wrapping around her slender waist possessively.
“I saw the livecast,” Masa said. “Shall we drink to another championship?” She raised an elegant small sake cup.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Charles accepted the cup and drained it in one gulp. Then he kissed her perfect cheek. “The only reason I flew so fast, of course, was to see you—”
“Oh, please!” Masa laughed.
“I swear. It’s been how many months since we last saw each other? I’ve really missed you.”
“Is that so?” Masa’s expression was halfway between a smile and a frown. “How do you explain Claudia then?”
Charles grinned awkwardly. “Um . . . she’s a lovely girl, of course. Both of you are! You’re both so close to my heart . . . ”
Having had her fun, Masa switched topics. “Have you seen my new film? I sent you tickets to the premier, but you didn’t show up.” She waited a beat. “It’s called Hokkaido Love Story, remember?”
“Of course! You were magnificent, baby.” Charles caressed her hair, which gave off the fragrance of cherry blossoms. “I absolutely loved it.” He struggled to remember the name of Masa’s character, but came up empty. “Oh my God, you displayed such emotional range and authenticity in the portrayal.”
The corners of Masa’s mouth curved up. She knew that at least ten million people had heard the endorsement, and soon, hundreds of millions would be looking up her film on the web. She could already envision Hollywood beckoning at her. “So, tell me Charles, which scene was your favorite?”
“ . . . The ending, definitely the ending. I thought it was so . . . moving.” Charles hurried to change the subject. “I thought this was a famous tourist spot. How come there’s no one else here?”
“This lake is private. The owner is the head of the Asao Group. He’s providing the spot for our date free of charge.”
“Please thank him for me. It’s so beautiful here.” Charles looked around him. The snowy peak of Mount Fuji glistened in the distance, and all around branches laden with cherry blossoms swayed in the breeze, soft, pink petals falling to the placid jade lake surface like rain. Every scent in the air was pure, refreshing.
“I bet Thoreau would be jealous of us.” Charles took a deep breath. “I think if I were to live here, I’d write something even better than Walden.”
“Walden? What’s that?”
“It’s . . . never mind.” Charles’s grin turned feral as he leaned in toward his companion. “Masa-san, have you ever tried to . . . ” His voice was now an inaudible whisper, but of course innumerable audience members around the world shared the revelation in livecast with Masa.
&nbs
p; Masa giggled. “Oh, such an adventurer!”
The two of them were now entwined on the ground. How the hell am I supposed to get this thing off her? Oh, the knot is back here . . .
The noise of an approaching engine broke the tranquility of the lake. Charles twisted his head around and saw a tiny blue dot above the horizon. “Oh, I hope it’s not those crazy fans again,” he muttered.
The dot rapidly grew in size, and a pair of wings appeared around it. Charles soon saw the Japanese flag painted on the fuselage as well as the English text beneath it: a patrol vehicle from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police.
The tiny aircraft landed next to Pegasus, and a police officer emerged and strode over to them.
“Sir, are you Charles Mann?” Her English was heavily accented.
“Yes, are you looking for an autograph, sweetheart?” Charles examined the officer. She was young and not classically beautiful, but her fit figure and serious mien gave her an air that commanded attention.
“Mr. Charles Mann,” the officer spoke without expression. “You’re suspected of engaging in terrorist activities. Pursuant to Japanese law, I ask that you return with us and cooperate with our investigation. You have the right to remain silent . . . ”
Me? Terrorism? What kind of stupid joke is this? Charles turned to look at Masa, but she looked equally puzzled.
“Wait just a minute! What are you talking about?”
“Exceeding the speed limit at low altitudes,” the officer explained. “Speeding beyond Mach 2 is illegal, and beyond Mach 5 is considered a serious threat against the city and a potential terrorist attack. Your speed just now exceeded Mach 10. According to Chapter Seven, Article Eighty-Two of the Japanese Special Anti-Terrorism Provisions, you must be detained and interrogated.”
“Are you nuts? Don’t you know there was a championship race today?”
“Yes, the race was subject to certain exemptions. However, after the race was over, you took off again, still exceeding the speed limit and outside the race area. I have no choice but to arrest you.”
“Arrest me for speeding? That’s utter bull—” Charles forced himself to calm down. Remember, millions are behind me.
“This is ridiculous!” Masa quickly pulled the kimono around herself, got up, and began to speak to the officer in rapid-fire Japanese, gesticulating wildly.
But Charles could tell that this officer wasn’t going to budge; he also noticed several other muscular officers in the patrol vehicle by Pegasus. “All right.” He gestured for Masa to stop and shrugged. “I’ve never had an opportunity to visit a Japanese detention center. But sweetheart, I’m going to write you into my next novel. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You may do as you like.” The officer seemed relieved that he wasn’t making a fuss. “If you wish to retain an attorney—”
“Already taken care of,” Charles said, pointing at his head to indicate that his lawyer was monitoring his livecast. “Oh, may I have the pleasure of your name?” He saw the name tag on her chest, but he couldn’t read kanji.
The officer hesitated for a second. “Hosokawa Homi.”
“Hosokawa . . . Homi,” Charles repeated the name. “Can you promise me something?”
She looked at him questioningly.
Charles grinned. “You ruined my date. When this is all over, you will have to give me another one as compensation.”
“Mr. Charles,” Homi said, blushing furiously. She was so flummoxed that she had temporarily forgotten that Westerners put their given names first. “Let me remind you that it is a crime to harass a police officer in Japan!”
But Charles was sure he had seen a hint of delight in her eyes as well.
The pleasure of the hunt!
4.
In accordance with standard procedures, Charles was handcuffed and brought into the patrol vehicle under the watchful eyes of multiple officers, who refused to let Masa Aoi accompany him on the ride back to Tokyo.
The whole flight back, Charles tried to chat up Homi, who pretended to ignore him, though from time to time she couldn’t help but smile. The expressions on the other officers’ faces grew uglier by the minute.
By the time they approached the landing pad at the top of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters building, multiple aerial vans from local news agencies had already surrounded the place. A group of fans chanting “Free Charles!” were attempting to land forcefully, and the police had to divert half a dozen additional patrol vehicles with dozens of officers to maintain order. Everything was chaotic.
Surrounded by a group of police officers, Charles strode toward the entrance. Homi walked right next to him, and couldn’t avoid being pressed against his muscular body.
“At my last signing in Manila,” Charles said to her, “the crowd was just as crazy as this one. Being pressed against so many bodies was no fun, of course, but something interesting did happen.”
“What?” asked Homi, unable to resist.
“The crowd was mad, shoving and pushing. I was fine, of course, but they managed to squeeze a baby out of a pregnant woman.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Ah, but then they managed to squeeze the baby into another woman next to me.”
“What?” It took a moment for Homi to get it. “You need better jokes.”
“I’m telling you the truth!” Charles insisted earnestly. “Worst of all, she said the baby was mine.”
Homi snorted and said something to him, but Charles didn’t hear it. A complete, eerie silence suddenly enveloped him, and he watched the crowd squirm around him in the flickering light helplessly. Then, the perception of weight vanished, and Charles felt himself suspended in his own body, as though he was about to float off. All sensation of touch ceased.
Fade to white.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, his head numb and heavy. Above him was the stained ceiling of his efficiency apartment, and the fan in the computer next to him hummed.
It took him a while to remember that he wasn’t Charles. He was only Takumi Naoto.
Naoto had no idea what had happened. He got up and stumbled to his computer. The web was filled with confused chatter, and countless fans were cursing the police for creating trouble. Not only did they interrupt a hot session with Aoi Masa, but they even managed to somehow break off the livecast altogether.
Soon, the answer emerged. Out of confidentiality considerations, the Metropolitan Police had blocked the neutrino beam transmission. The world was temporarily cut off from Charles’s livecast.
“Baka! Baka! Don’t the cops have anything better to do than mess with our lives?” Naoto let out a string of curses and paced around the room. Who knew how long the livecast would be interrupted? Two hours? Eight? More than a day? What was he supposed to do? If he was supposed to spend a whole day not as Charles, then they might as well have poked out his eyes and eardrums.
Finally, he managed to calm himself down enough to open the programming interface and try to get some work done, but he couldn’t focus, and made multiple errors in a single line of code. In despair, he slammed his keyboard down and returned to the tatami mat to sleep. Tossing and turning, he couldn’t get comfortable; he was like a junkie needing his fix. Every sensation was alien. The feeling of being Charles was leaving him, and his soul, which ought to be soaring through the empyrean, was imprisoned in the disgusting body of Takumi Naoto.
The doorbell rang, finally giving Naoto something else to focus his attention on. He jumped up and rushed to the door. The display screen showed his visitor: short, pear-shaped, female. Asakura Minami.
Naoto opened the door. “What are you doing here?” His tone was impatient.
“I . . . ” Awkwardly, Minami lifted a bento box. “I made lunch, and I wanted to see if you want some.”
“I don’t—” Seeing Minami’s flushed face, Naoto swallowed his ready refusal. “All right. Thanks.”
He reached out to take the bento, but he was so clumsy that he managed to drop it. The box fell on the
ground, spilling hot unadon and tempura all over the floor.
“I’m so sorry!” Minami squatted to clean up the mess. “I don’t know what happened. I just didn’t hold on—”
A pang of guilt struck Naoto. “No. It’s my fault.” He squatted down to help her.
It took a while for the two of them to clean up the floor. Minami was distraught. “I made all this for you.”
“No worries. Actually, I’ve already eaten, and I’m not hungry at all.” After hesitating for a moment, Naoto added, “Why don’t you come in?”
Minami walked in and looked around. Naoto felt his cheeks heat up. “I apologize. My place is a mess.”
But Minami giggled. “All men are like this—well, at least that’s what I hear. Takumi-kun, do you spend all day working at home?”
“Yes.” Naoto handed her a glass of mineral water. “Lots of people work from home now, and my job just requires a computer.”
“Don’t you ever go out? Or talk to anyone? Don’t you get lonely?”
“No. I can . . . go on the web. Everything is on the web.”
“It’s not the same.” Minami gazed at him, her eyes full of concern. “You should be more active. I think you look a bit too pale. You need fresh air.”
“I’m fine.”
Minami noticed the massive hexagonal black box at the head of Naoto’s bed. “What’s that?”
“It’s nothing. Just a computing peripheral.” Naoto didn’t want to explain.
But Minami had already recognized it. “This is . . . a neutrino receiver and converter! Are you into livecasts?”
“How . . . did you know?”
“My friend Rimi has one in her home, and it looks just like this. She told me it’s for livecasts, but I don’t know how it works exactly.”
“It receives neutrino beams and converts them into electromagnetic waves,” Naoto explained. “Because neutrino beams can go right through the Earth, it’s the fastest way to transmit information and minimize delay. But the equipment for neutrino transmission can’t be miniaturized, and it’s impossible to add one to a cranial implant. The only solution is to relay the electromagnetic signal to one of these, convert it to a neutrino beam, and then reverse the conversion at the other end. Have you ever tuned into a livecast?”
