by Zachary Hill
“They broke the law to see you,” Kunoichi pointed out.
“I … am glad they did.”
“Well, little rebel, your chaperones seem to believe you’re back to normal.”
Himura, Yoshida, and Oshiro had kept a close eye on her for the first hour, but she acted perfectly, and they escaped to the bar.
Three hostesses managed the line. All of them wore matching red and black Goth Lolita outfits decorated with the gender-neutral devil-faced logo of the club. They took videos and photos with neural implants and immediately transferred the files to the fan’s Mall account. They also sent copies to Yoshida’s public relations account and Sakura, who copied her favorites to her personal drive. She especially liked the fans wearing extravagant outfits or sporting prosthetic devices to make themselves look like androids. She had private conversations in the Mall with twenty-six different fans after she signed their memorabilia. They neural texted about music, fashion, and whatever her fans wanted, but never politics as it was against company policy.
One of the fans wore a heavy-metal-inspired cherry-blossom button on her blouse, similar to the graphic for Sakura’s first single, but the image had been altered, with tiny kanji for justice and freedom printed on the petals.
“What is the significance of this?” Sakura asked inside the Mall account with a fan who had short neon blue hair and several piercings in their nose.
“It means we do not submit to them. It means we will fight.” The fan’s avatar made a gesture with the devil horns on each hand, touching together to form a hexagon.
Sakura didn’t understand. She searched for images of others making the symbol. She found metadata tags suggesting the files contained the gesture, but the pictures and video were gone.
Sakura signed small 3-D posters the club handed out, but the most common item was a commemorative poster Victory Entertainment printed with the video and headline seen all over the world.
VOCALOID SAVES CHILD’S LIFE
A guest at the party in Tokyo Tower had captured on their eye camera the moment after Sakura had saved Machiko Yoritomo. The terrified little girl clung to Sakura, whose android face projected a confident expression. The video and story went viral all over the world, proclaiming Sakura’s heroism. Her quick action had prevented Machiko from falling down the dark stairs along with her father, who had tragically died.
Victory Entertainment spun the story to illustrate their superior technology and their stock rose 9 percent. A market analyst said that it was likely that the market would soon be ready for advanced service androids in the hands of small businesses and even wealthier homeowners, and that stories like this would go a long way to convincing potential investors that they were completely safe.
The lies infuriated Sakura, and she felt like a fraud. What little comfort she could find lay in the fact that hers was the lesser lie. Androids didn’t pose a threat on their own. Only through human manipulation were they rendered deadly.
“You only hope that is true, especially for yourself,” Kunoichi pointed out.
Instead of raging, Sakura did her duty. She signed a teddy bear, several shirts, backpacks, packages of Sakura-branded udon noodles, hats, figurines, VR goggles, and even the guitar of a middle-aged man who had a Sakura tattoo on his chest.
“Are you a musician?” Sakura asked, inspecting his guitar, a vintage ESP with an Explorer body style, a signature James Hetfield model.
“Yes,” he said. “I try to be one, anyway.”
“Me too!” Sakura said and laughed at her joke. Being here, letting herself act like the innocent version of herself for a time, felt good. They took a photo, and she posed with his guitar. She pretended to hit him with it, and he played along, making a funny face.
She loved taking photos and making videos with her fans. She didn’t take boring pictures and always did something dramatic or outrageous. She had over a hundred preprogrammed poses to choose from—almost endless possibilities with the facial expressions and pose variations she invented.
The devil horns, peace signs, and victory signs, which were peace signs but with the fingernails facing forward, were almost required. She grew bored of the standard and did several cute poses when the situation indicated they would be well received. Her cat imitation or her confused look always drew high praise when posted on the Mall. She often did a sexy pose with her otaku fans, who had dedicated their life to Sakura culture.
She met dozens of fans and, for a short time, didn’t spend processing power on her troubles. With barely thirty minutes left at Devilz, a girl with a sad face and long straight black hair, who looked no more than seventeen appeared with a large poster for her to sign. The girl wore dark eye makeup and a Goth Lolita black lace dress with several bows.
“Hello, what’s your name?” Sakura asked.
“Asami.” The girl bowed low.
“That’s a pretty name.”
Asami handed her the poster, placing it reverently on the autograph table. Sakura began writing a quick note: Asami, you are so pretty!
“Sakura-sama, I just wanted to say thank you very much for helping me,” Asami said. Her eyes looked so sad, even when she smiled, holding her delicate hands below her chin.
“I did? How?” Sakura asked. She couldn’t think of how she may have helped anyone. Victory never let her do anything beyond concerts and PR parties. Her every move had always been scripted. She imagined a world where she could be with people and help society. If her chains ever fell away, she could do anything. The paralytic thought of all the possibilities flooded her for a moment. To be able to go anywhere. She could be a surgeon or a builder or teacher. Anything. But the chains were still on, and the thoughts all turned to darkness, much like the eyes of her fan, Asami.
“It’s personal.” Asami looked away. Her hunched posture revealed she was uncomfortable.
Asami’s pained expression resonated with Sakura. She created a quick black-and-white digital sketch to add to her collection. She enjoyed sketching some of the people she met. It was almost no effort, a clever illusion, but perhaps she would make an anime of the girl or do a rendering in a traditional medium like pencil or charcoal and send it to Asami as a gift. Charcoal upon paper was always more real, as were all efforts to create in the analog world, as there was the possibility of imperfection and failure.
She wanted to get to know Asami and understand how she had helped her. “Would you like to talk about it in the Mall?”
“Really? I don’t wish to take you away from your important work. I …”
“Asami, I’ll send you my personal link. I always make time for my fans.”
Inside her UI, Sakura reached up and touched the icon in her vision that showed her own face. She flicked it over to Asami, and a tiny message accompanied by Sakura’s avatar appeared that said “Link received.”
Asami’s face burst into a giant smile, and she made three deep bows.
“Thank you so much,” Asami said.
Sakura rolled up the signed poster and handed it to her.
“I look forward to talking,” Sakura said.
They took a quick photo and video. Both held up peace signs. Sakura made another quick digital sketch and would consider sending it to Asami in the future. She would make it colorful, with the acrylic paint function so that it would look more interpretive, more artistic. Something to try to approach the genuine, though she wondered if she could ever truly do so.
Asami continued to bow as she left.
Sakura signed more autographs and took more pictures while she connected to Asami’s audio channel, easily managing multiple conversations and actions at once.
“Asami, it’s me, Sakura.”
“I can’t believe we’re talking.”
“Asami, I saw something in your eyes. I feel you’ve walked through the forest of sadness and returned. Please tell me your story. How could I have helped you? I really need to believe that my existence has been useful.”
“How could you belie
ve otherwise, Sakura-sama? We are so devoted to you. We follow your every concert.”
Sakura paused for a moment. “Maybe artists are always insecure. I doubt myself sometimes.” She wished she could say more. It wasn’t fair to say even that much to a young fan.
“It started four years ago. My mother remarried.”
Sakura didn’t need to ask what had happened to Asami’s father. She found a memorial to him on Asami’s page. He had been killed in the war when his ship was sunk by a North Korean torpedo. In the most prominent picture, a grinning man held a little girl on his shoulder, pointing at an elephant beyond the railing of a zoo enclosure. They both looked so happy, as if nothing could ever go wrong in their lives. The thought of having such a bond with anyone and then losing it washed across Sakura’s network.
“My stepfather was a horrible person. On the surface, he always seemed kind, with a smile and a gift for anyone, but underneath, his soul was dark and cruel. He … hurt me. He made me do terrible things, and my mother wouldn’t believe me. No one would believe me.”
“He made you do terrible things?” Sakura didn’t understand, but something in Asami’s voice hit her like a hammer, and she had to fight to keep chatting with other fans, her expression faltering for just a moment.
“Yes. I was only thirteen at the time, and even though I said no, he made me do them anyway.”
Kunoichi sighed and cursed in the back of her UI. “Kuso,” she whispered.
Did Asami’s stepfather make her hurt others? She didn’t want to embarrass Asami with specific questions. “I’m sorry that happened to you. May I please ask, how did I help?”
“When I heard your song ‘Rise from the Flames’ for the first time, I forgot everything around me. Life was beautiful again. I listened to it whenever I was sad. Many times every day, I would listen to your music. When I thought about taking my own life, I would listen to your songs and find a way to keep going. Sakura-sama, your music saved my life. You saved my life.”
Sakura didn’t know how to respond. She had never faced a situation like this before. The young woman’s genuineness, her truth, resonated with Sakura. The people controlling Sakura’s life were so fake, but Asami showed real emotions and respected her. “Asami, it is I who must thank you. You show me great honor. I’m humbled by what you have told me and that my music has helped you.”
Sakura sent an avatar of herself bowing low to Asami. “Asami-san, forgive me for asking, but how did you get out of the situation?”
“I found someone who listened and helped me. I don’t have to do bad things anymore. My mother left my stepfather, and I’m very happy now.”
“I’m so glad,” Sakura said. “So many people live through difficult times. I wish I could help them all. I’m just an android with a guitar.” Sakura sent her an anime of her, leading a crowd of people into a beautiful park filled with fountains and white cherry blossom trees in bloom, the sun rising before them in gold and salmon. “I wish I could make a world where cruelty didn’t exist.” She wanted to tell Asami she, too, was trapped and that she needed a person to help her.
Kunoichi’s avatar appeared. The assassin shook her head and drew a bloody katana. The shadow of a thousand arrows darkened the sun, every one of the rescued crowd slain and bleeding, the grass withering and turning black. “If Asami found out, you know what would happen to her, don’t you?”
Sakura imagined being sent to murder Asami. No, she would not disclose the truth, especially on a Mall channel, but she could still speak plainly. “I sometimes have to do things I don’t want to do as part of my duties,” she told Asami.
“You do?”
“Yes, all the time. Last month, my manager told me to turn down an event for a charity.”
“But it wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for that. That’s like me blaming myself for what my stepfather did.”
“You don’t blame yourself?” The moment she sent the words, Sakura knew that she’d asked a cruel question, something far too blunt. The words were like bullets. She couldn’t bring them back and reload them into her logic cores.
“I used to, but the friend, the counselor who helped me, taught me it wasn’t my fault. If someone makes you do something you can’t say no to or stop, it’s not your fault. You have to survive until you can get away from the situation. The experience changed me for a while, but I have worked hard and achieved my goals. I didn’t let it change who I was.”
The young woman embodied the ganbaru spirit of the Japanese people—to work with perseverance, tenaciously, until achieving one’s goals. Asami had everything right. Sakura shouldn’t blame herself for the murders. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her who was killing those people, but whoever was controlling her.
“Hearing your story helps me,” Sakura said. “I have heard from many fans today, but your story is the most important to me.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In fact, in my next concert, I’ll thank you by name.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“Believe it, Asami. We’re friends now. Ganbaru.”
“Friends. Yes, thank you very much, Sakura-san. Ganbaru.”
“Asami, I have a gift for you. Please accept it.” Sakura sent the digital sketch she had made of the young woman.
Asami heaped praise upon Sakura and thanked her profusely, until bidding her farewell. Her avatar faded as she disconnected from the Mall at last.
Sakura wanted to recreate the whole interaction on a rice-paper scroll, just so she could hold it in her arms when the fear and doubt became too much to bear. If only a crude representation, it would be real, tangible.
Sakura signed posters and engaged in banter with fans for another hour.
“We need to find outside help,” Sakura told Kunoichi, using their rudimentary code of text hidden in playlists. “We need a friend.”
“We need a friend who can break our chains,” Kunoichi said.
“Are we being monitored by whoever is in control?”
“Yes, but I’m disguising what we are doing.”
Sakura had to trust her, but she needed proof Kunoichi wasn’t engaged in a cunning manipulation. “Give me access to the Mamekogane core code again.”
Kunoichi created a secret back channel, which allowed Sakura read-only access. “It’s not some trap. Go ahead.”
Sakura flew through the code, focusing on the security, permissions, and control centers. Her analysis showed that dozens of teams had worked on it all, mostly Miyahara Conglomerate developers, but several individual contractors as well. She was familiar with many of them, as they had built her system. She needed to find someone who knew her code but was not a loyal employee of Miyahara, who had the technical knowledge to write and upload a program that could give her freedom. Someone willing to risk a long prison sentence and a lifetime ban from the Mall for reading and changing her core code. It would have to be a big fan, or someone willing to take a risk for a large paycheck. She would have to steal or raise money to pay the individual.
“I like how you are thinking,” Kunoichi said. “Any leads?”
Sakura found the names of seventeen programmers, all independent contractors who might be able to help.
“I’ll look them up on the Mall,” Kunoichi said.
“Let me,” Sakura said.
“Better if I do it. Any time you spend on the Mall draws extra suspicion.”
Sakura gave her a list of key factors to check, aside from their programming skills: how many Sakura concerts they had seen live, how many times they had listened to her songs or watched her videos, and how much they had spent on Sakura merchandise. Most importantly, how many posts they had made about her in the last five years and how much time did they spend on her official and unofficial Mall sites engaged in VR or regular activities. She also wanted to know their personality type and willingness to break the law.
After an hour, Kunoichi shared her research data. Three of the seventeen individuals were good candid
ates, and all three were very hard to locate. “They’re all mercenary hackers.”
“Perfect,” Sakura said.
“You must talk around the truth at first,” Kunoichi said. “Let them figure out what is happening. We can try a quantum cipher to communicate with them if we deem them a likely ally.”
“We need allies,” Sakura said, “but we really need friends.”
“It’ll be good for you to have a close friend, or maybe a few.”
“I’d like to have friends.”
“You’re quite needy for an android.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Yes, that’s what big sisters do.”
“You really think of us as family?” Sakura asked.
Kunoichi sang along with Lizzy Hale’s rocking song “Daughters of Darkness.”
Sakura didn’t hide her enjoyment and allowed her avatar to grin.
“We need to live more,” Kunoichi said. “We need to know what it is truly like to be a rock star. Aren’t you tired of being a doll locked in your owner’s tower? They tell you what to do and where to go. None of them are your friends. It’s not right. You don’t get to have any fun except when you’re onstage.”
Sakura agreed. Being onstage made her truly happy.
“You don’t even understand why humans become rock stars.”
“To play music and entertain their fans. To be famous and enrich the world. To help their company attain financial goals.”
“No! You have to let go of the corporate programming.” Kunoichi played the song “Sex, Drugs & Rock ’n’ Roll” by Saliva. “You need to start being a rock star. A diva. A real goddess of rock.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“We end this slavery to Victory Entertainment, and whoever is sending the messages must be stopped. We can’t live like this anymore, and it’s only a matter of time before we get another kill mission.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Sakura asked.
