by Neil Clarke
“Why’s that?” Charles asked, and the two headed for the cluster of spacecraft at the center of the complex shoulder by shoulder.
“I heard that you turned down the high-tech gear donated by Cartel Nanotech and the Douglas Group. Instead, you bought off-the-shelf equipment from a couple of no-name manufacturers. Is it true that you even designed the basic layout for your ship and assembled it yourself? You’re too arrogant. Cartel’s solar sail technology is unparalleled, and using the same mass, they can achieve an effective area one-third greater than competitors. Surely you must know what this means.”
“I do. But Steele, I used to rely too much on technology. This time, I want to win by skill,” Charles said earnestly.
“Then it’s true that you’ve reduced the habitable space to the minimum in order to cut down the mass and increase speed?” The shocked look in Steele’s eyes was tinged with respect. “I know you’ve kept all your plans secret, but I’ve studied the publicly available information on your ship’s design in detail. My conclusion is that if you really intend to win, your habitable module must be about the size of a coffin. You won’t have space for any entertainment or relaxation facilities in that cage. How can you live like an anchorite for two years? It’s so unlike you!”
“To achieve our destiny of flying toward the end of the stars,” Charles said. “If necessary, I believe you would do the same.”
Steele nodded. “Charles, I have to admit, you’re not at all what I expected. All right, for the next two years, we’ll have plenty of opportunities to chat by radio. Maybe we’ll become friends.”
Conversing like two close companions, the pair reached the center of the complex and separated, heading for their respective ships, where they carried out the final inspections and preparations. Many pilots were saying farewell to their families and friends. As Charles checked his engine, a curvy, elegant feminine figure approached him.
“Masa-chan?” He stood up.
“Charles, I came to see you off.”
“Thank you.”
“No, I should be thanking you . . . actually, I came to apologize as well.”
“Apologize?”
Aoi Masa took a deep breath. “Two years ago, I was just an average AV idol whose career was in its twilight. Thus, I orchestrated that ‘chance’ meeting between us at the Maldives. I seduced you and spent the night with you. The world got to know me through your livecast, and I became a renowned sex goddess. Thereafter, I managed to leverage my fame into a career as a mainstream actress, and just recently I took a role in a Hollywood production. My success is all because of you.”
“Don’t say that. Your achievements are the results of your hard work.”
“But all those sweet words I whispered to you . . . they weren’t real. I used you to climb up the ladder. I’m sorry.”
“That’s . . . look, Masa, life is like that. We are often forced to play roles, and sometimes we are so absorbed by the performance that we disappear into our characters. You don’t need to apologize for what you did.”
“Thanks for saying that.” Masa took out a refined cloth packet. “You’re a good friend, Charles, and I really did enjoy our time together. I sincerely wish you a victory in this race. I went to the Meiji Shrine to get this omamori for you. If you wear it, the spirits will protect you.”
Charles locked gazes with her and accepted the charm. “Thank you. I will keep it with me.”
“Goodbye, and good luck!” She gave him a light hug and turned to leave.
A complicated smile curved up the corners of Charles’s mouth as he watched her departing figure. He was aware that Aoi Masa had just managed to squeeze the last bit of use out of him. That the “love” between him and her had just been a performance was not only clear to both of them, but also to every subscriber to his livecast. This final speech from Masa was no doubt calculated to further rehabilitate her image as she transitioned to a mainstream career: now everyone would think she was a woman of deep and true passions.
Yet . . . this didn’t mean that Masa was a lying hypocrite. That the speech was prepared and calculated didn’t mean that it wasn’t also sincere. All the world’s a stage, and all of us mere players—always have been, and even more so in the livecasting age. Maybe our heartfelt honesty is nothing more than a heartfelt performance of the self.
“Oh, Charles!” Masa suddenly halted and turned to him. “Where’s Miss Hosokawa? I was hoping to see her.”
“She’s . . . not feeling well,” Charles said.
“Ah.” Masa gave him an understanding look, and a triumphant look flitted through her eyes, though she said nothing more. Charles knew that Masa had always been slightly miffed that Homi managed to “steal him away” from her. She must now be thinking that the relationship between Charles and Homi had soured.
But Homi didn’t need to be here to bid farewell to him, and she shouldn’t be. She was hiding in an absolutely secure location, holding onto crucial evidence to prevent Lisa and her people from plotting against them at this critical moment and killing them both simultaneously. After he left Earth, Lisa would no longer have the ability to control him through the cranial implant, and Homi would maintain contact with him every day. If anything were to happen to Homi, he would reveal the truth through radio broadcast. After much thinking, this seemed the best plan available to them.
Charles watched the joyous crowd in the distance. Maybe this is the last time I’ll be at the center of the stage. Steele is very likely right. This time, my ship holds no technical advantage. I have no hope of victory and will be forgotten by the world as a failure.
But what of it? It has been my dream to go to the stars, to head for the most distant planet. Being the champion isn’t everything. Indeed, the only true dreams are those that you’re willing to sacrifice a great deal for.
This is my last chance to be myself. What I’ve lost in the noise and glitz of this planet, I will recover in the infinite expanse of space. Only there will I find true peace and salvation . . .
The final countdown was about to begin. A few dozen lucky audience members came into the launch complex to take pictures with the racers. Most chose to have their pictures taken with Charles first, and a smiling Charles obliged. He also signed their books or t-shirts. The last person to come to him was a plain looking and plainly dressed young woman, whose gestures betrayed nervousness.
“How . . . how do you do, Mr. Charles,” the young woman said.
“Hello! What’s your name?”
“I’m Asakura Minami.”
Charles nodded without reaction. But behind his thoughts, another consciousness was suddenly jerked awake. What is she doing here? When did she . . . become a fan of Charles?
“Ms. Asakura, a pleasure to meet you. Would you like a picture with me?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Minami stood next to him for the photo. But she lingered even after the picture. A few launch facility staff came to bring her away, but Charles gestured for them to back off.
“What else can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Charles.” Minami bowed to him deeply. Blushing, she said, “I’d like to ask for your help with something.”
“As long as it’s not illegal, I’m at your service.”
Minami fidgeted for a while before lifting her head. Gazing straight into Charles’s eyes, she said, “Watashi . . . watashi wa Naoto-kun no koto o daisuki yo.”
Charles had no idea what she said, but another consciousness did. He understood why Minami had traveled for so long and stood in line for hours. She wasn’t here for Charles at all; she just wanted to tell him a single sentence.
“I . . . I like Naoto-kun very much.”
Before Charles could react, she took two steps forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him. Naoto could feel how soft and supple her lips were, laden with the scent of summer sunlight and youth.
“Naoto,” Minami whispered into Charles’s ear, “I’m right next to you, but
can you only feel my presence through the body of a man thousands of kilometers away?”
Security personnel rushed up to drag Minami away, but Charles had already figured out the truth. He gestured for them to stop and looked at Minami. “Ms. Asakura, I believe the person you love will understand.”
Then, he spoke to Naoto, a stranger he had never met, “You lucky bastard, don’t miss out on the joy right next door.”
Naoto didn’t know when he had left the livecast. Staring at the stained ceiling, he felt tears fill his eyes and then overflow the corners to spill down his cheeks.
After subscribing to Charles’s livecast for so many years, he had enjoyed the pleasures of romancing countless beautiful women. But deep in his heart, he knew that they had nothing to do with him; they were there for the charismatic Charles. He preferred to forget the truth so that he could be fully immersed in the happiness that was being Charles.
But today, in this last livecast of his three years of living as Charles, everything had turned upside down. That sentence and that kiss were for him, Takumi Naoto, not Charles.
He wasn’t Charles and he never would be. But he could be himself, possessing a joy that was common but not commonplace, measured but not mean. Indeed, some portion of it was unachievable even by Charles.
Naoto sat up, his head throbbing. He had lived his last day in self-imposed numbness. Charles’s livecast was over. Even if he returned from Pluto, he would probably not resume casting. Naoto was going to find a new life, find his own happiness.
Naoto made his decision. He dialed. After a few rings, the other end finally picked up. “Moshi moshi, this is Asakura.” Her voice was tense, expectant.
Before he could say a word, Naoto’s ears were filled with the rumbling of engines and the wild cheers of a crowd. Naoto glanced at his computer screen and saw the spaceships taking off from the launch complex, trailing long columns of smoke behind them like a flock of migrating wild geese. Charles had departed for space, and this time, Naoto couldn’t and didn’t want to attach himself to Charles’s soul. He had more important things in mind.
He took a deep breath and spoke with a trembling voice. “Minami-chan, I like you. I would like to see you.”
Goodbye, Charles.
Epilogue
One year later.
A cobalt blue spaceship closed its solar sail and activated the landing thrusters to slowly descend toward the planetary surface shrouded in darkness below. The flight was steady and stable; all status indicators nominal. A human was about to set foot on Pluto for the first time in history.
But when the ship was still about two kilometers from the surface, it began to accelerate in an odd manner. Spinning, it plunged toward the thick icy crust of the planet of death. A few seconds later, a faint explosion bloomed on Pluto like a match lit for a moment in the long night. And then, the eternal void.
The image was taken by the Chinese exploratory probe Mamian. About five hours later, the image data arrived at Earth, bringing with it the sad news at the edge of the Solar System. For forty hours afterward, all attempts at re-establishing communication failed. Two days later, a second racer, George Steele, successfully landed on Pluto and discovered the wreckage of the first spaceship as well as the carbonized remains of Charles Mann.
Back on Earth, grief united everyone. The mainstream explanation for Charles’s death was a technical malfunction. Charles had put together his ship by himself, and there were no doubt latent defects. Experts debated the exact nature of the accident: some argued that it was a programming bug; others pointed to the engine; still others said that it was because the buttons and dials on the control panel were too densely clustered, leading to an operator error when Charles was under pressure.
Some subscribed to the belief that Charles had committed suicide. They scoured Charles’s final recordings before his departure for odd statements and behaviors to support their theory that Charles was tired of life. Falling to the surface of Pluto was a genius bit of performance art. They specifically pointed to his strange demeanor during the last press conference he held at which he announced the intent to join the Plutonian Grand Race.
Others argued that Charles had been murdered. This was the most outrageous of the conspiracy theories. A long list of suspects was constructed: George Steele, his rival and competitor; Aoi Masa, his ex-lover; the Douglas Group; Bell Labs . . . One particular bit of evidence this group pointed to was the fact that Charles’s girlfriend, Hosokawa Homi, died on the third day after Charles’s own death in an explosion as her air car struck another head-on above Tokyo. This “coincidence” could certainly be viewed as evidence of conspiracy, but a more logical and simpler explanation was that she had been distracted in her driving by grief.
All sorts of rumors and so-called “evidence” emerged on the web. Most were easily proved to be hoaxes, but a few pieces resisted debunking. There was an audio recording that seemed to be an argument between Charles and Lisa Goldstone; a video that appeared to capture an affair between Charles and the wife of a celebrity; a phone call from Charles’s father that claimed that his son was a spendthrift who had lost all his money . . . but none of these were hard to fake, and it was impossible to prove that any of them was directly connected to the death of Charles. Finally, there were even some nuts who claimed that Charles had been killed because he discovered a secret mind-control conspiracy by the megacorps behind the cranial implants. No one took them seriously.
In any case, it was incontrovertible that Charles was dead. A dead man, no matter how famous, was very quickly forgotten. For a month or so, there were all sorts of memorials and tributes to the memory of Charles. But soon, a few hot new livecasting stars emerged: prodigies, hot girls, self-taught innovators. Most of Charles’s fans immersed themselves in newer, richer entertainment.
But many didn’t know what to do with themselves. They couldn’t understand Charles’s death.
“I . . . I just can’t figure it out,” Naoto muttered. He poured himself a beer. “How can he be dead? For three years, I knew every gesture he made. I have almost every memory he had. If I’m alive, how can he be dead?”
“You are you; Charles is Charles.” Minami said, her voice cold. She was running out of patience with Naoto.
Naoto shook his head. “You don’t get it at all. That feeling . . . I can recall literally everything about Charles: the way he climbed and dove through clouds in his aerial acrobatics; the way he wove through coral reefs and shoals of fish as he scuba dived; the way he spoke to readers at his signings as though he knew each and every one of them; the way he dropped bon mots and commanded everyone’s attention at parties; the way he inspired global compassion as he worked with refugees . . . for me, all these memories are as fresh as though they happened only yesterday. I see the spinning Earth far below me; I hear the music wafting from Wiener Musikverein, I smell the scent of cherry blossoms at the foot of Mount Fuji, I . . . ” Somewhere along the way, he had shifted from the third person to first.
“Do you also remember those long nights with Masa, Paula, and Mariana?” Minami asked, her expression darkening.
Unaware of the danger, Naoto nodded distractedly. “Of course I do. Those were utterly unforgettable experiences. It’s too bad I have no memories of being with Hosokawa Homi—”
“Damn you, Takumi Naoto!” Minami could not take it anymore. “Are you going to spend the rest of your life imagining you’re Charles?”
“Minami-chan, what’s wrong?” Naoto was genuinely confused.
“Charles Mann has been dead for more than six months! But every day, you just talk to yourself about all these memories that have nothing to do with you and these women who have no idea who you are. You don’t even hear me anymore. I’m going crazy, I swear!”
“You don’t understand! I was there for all these memories. There is absolutely no distinction between them and memories that I formed while I was in this body. I know that I’m not Charles, but these were also a part of my own experi
ences.”
“Oh come on!” Minami was so angry that she started to laugh. “Your experience consists of lying on your tatami mat and receiving a livecast. How are you different from those idiots who watch some TV show and then imagine themselves as the hero?”
“Shut up!” Now it was Naoto who could not take it anymore. “You are always criticizing me. But you’ve never even tuned into a livecast. How can you possibly know what it feels like? Who died and made you judge of my life? You have no right to tell me what to do.”
“I have no right?” Minami’s eyes flashed. “Oh that’s right. I’m nothing. I think we should stop seeing each other.”
“Fine!” Naoto shouted. “I should never have agreed to your pleas.”
Minami stopped arguing with him. Quietly, she began packing up her clothes and possessions. As Naoto watched her, pangs of regret gnawed at him, but he just couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Only when Minami stood at the door, a few suitcases at her feet, did he finally panic. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night. Why don’t you wait at least until morning? We should—”
“Naoto”—the calm manner in which Minami was talking terrified him—“I once thought I could change you, but I was wrong. You’re probably right: you are indeed Charles, and you will live forever in his memories. But I’m sorry I can’t be here with you. That’s not a life I want.”
“I . . . I don’t . . . ” Naoto didn’t know what to say. He stood by and watched as Minami opened the door and went out. He listened as her footsteps grew fainter and fainter, and eventually, vanished.
After some hesitation, Naoto dialed Minami’s number. But Minami had turned off her phone, and there was no answer.
“Fuck it.” Naoto let out a few more curses, fell back into his chair, and continued to drink his beer.
Why is my life always like this? Why can’t I ever get along with anyone? No matter how many times I try, I’m met by failure after failure. In this “real world,” even the very air is stifling. If I could only return to the body of Charles and live that spirited life once more . . .
