“Mayuko,” said Amon. “I’m so sorry for everything. I wish you’d never come to get me.”
DON’T SAY THAT. I’M GLAD WE HAD A CHANCE TO TALK. Then, after a pause. I’M SORRY I COULDN’T BE BEAUTIFUL LIKE THOSE GIRLS IN EROYUKI.
Amon felt her words bore into him, drilling emotional wounds at various points across his torso. Each of these raw holes welled up with remorse and overflowed, swelling and merging until there was no space between them and his whole body flooded with the feeling. It was the same remorse he’d felt the night before and Amon remembered Mayuko’s slip of the tongue. Then all the observations about her he’d made since seeing her with Rick that morning began to take on new meaning. Now he saw why she hadn’t changed her privacy settings to block him from her inner profile. Now he saw why she looked so tired these days, with new frown lines etched in her brow. Now he saw why she was always running and worrying about calories. Without intending to, he had betrayed this sensitive, irreplaceable being that had been closer to him than anyone on Earth. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that that night in Ginza was the most painful of his life, that he’d been alone ever since, that comparing her with those whores from Eroyuki was like comparing a slug stitched with flamingo wings to a flamingo, that if you peeled back layer after layer of who she was, delving into ever deeper sediments of self, you would find each one more beautiful than the last. But there was so little time.
“No,” he said. “That’s not right. I wanted to tell you last night.”
I HEARD ABOUT YOUR DREAM FROM RICK ALREADY. I CAN’T SAY I UNDERSTAND, BUT I TRIED MY BEST.
“Not just that. The girl in Ginza too. I wish I had the chance to explain.”
YOU DON’T HAVE TO, she texted. I CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES. Then Amon noticed a faint spectre of her floating there on the train watching him.
Of course. He should have realized. Those eyes left no corner of him unscoured, even those parts he couldn’t see himself. Especially those parts.
A bitter yearning tore at his chest like fish hooks tugging him towards her, and he wanted nothing more than to have her there before him in the flesh, to feel her warmth in his arms, to have the smell of her comet hair in his nose. He stepped forward, pushing aside passengers in his way, to embrace this figment of his love, when the shift in vantage brought her surround more clearly into view. She had seemed to be standing upright on the train, but he realized now that he was looking down on her from above as she lay on the wooden floor in the shadow of her captors, a steady stream of tears flowing down her temples onto the mat of comet hair splayed about her head. The spectacle was so sad, Amon thought his heart would split open and weep pulses of blood.
Then he saw it. In spite of all her pain and humiliation, her mouth was drawn in the faintest suggestion of a smile, too subtle for the men to notice but impossible to miss for Amon.
ALL THE RECORDINGS OF YOU WILL BE GONE, BUT I’LL ALWAYS KEEP YOU IN MY MEMORY, AMON.
As the train arrived at Yume Station, the last stop on the line, Amon lost all control. His face cracked into a grimace and he began to shake the bodies around him with the spasms of his chest, his hands cupped to his face, the tears pouring out between his fingers.
“Goodbye,” Amon croaked.
“Be safe,” whispered Mayuko and broke their connection.
At Yume Station, Amon flooded off the train with the other passengers and descended the escalator in line. At the bottom was a concourse bustling with salarymen and office ladies weaving through each other in every direction. In each of their freely purchased movements, each toe pivot and advance, each link click and scratch of the head, Amon could sense their faith in the reciprocity of the market, in the recompense they would receive for the growth they created through spending on actions, and their hope of earning ever greater possibility, of being able to pay for expression of their deepest desires. These feelings Amon recognized only now that he no longer possessed them. There was one chance remaining; he could admit that much. Such faith and hope, there was none.
Crossing the ticketing line, Amon opened the image of Makesh Adani’s business card saved in his LifeStream. He couldn’t say which Birla he was contacting, and knew it was a long shot to think that she would still hire him after his blatant rejection. Only ten odd minutes remained until the interest on his debt ate away all the creditime Mayuko had given him, and even if Makesh arranged the interview in time, who wanted to deal with a disgraced, illiquid hobo? But with nothing to lose, he clicked the woman’s FacePhone number.
After the seventh ring, the answering machine picked up. To save cash, Amon typed out his message, the words read aloud by software that perfectly mimicked his voice.
“Good day, Ms. Birla. This is Amon Kenzaki. Thank you for the sushi the other night. You may be surprised to find that I know who your parents are. Many things have happened since we met, and I’ve come to regret my decision to decline your offer. In fact, now that certain details of my situation have become clearer, I’m very interested in the opportunity you mentioned. Unfortunately, I’ll be going away shortly. If the position is still open when I return, I’d be delighted to fill it. In the meantime, you’re welcome to come find me in the District of Dreams. I hope to hear from you then. Take care.”
The light at the upcoming intersection turned green just as Amon reached it. Was this bit of good timing an omen that his luck was turning around? Or were the gods mocking him with insincere mercy only now that his salvation was too late?
Yume Station was a central terminal that connected to the ports and factories in the west end of Wakuwaku City. The rides had faded away several stations back, leaving looming skyscrapers, low warehouses, and the massive metal spheres of power stations. Here, suited office-jockies walked alongside assembly line workers and mechanics in jumpsuits. The patchwork heavens were clear, each quilted segment composing a single video of triangular lips blowing smoke like a moving jigsaw puzzle. It would all look different soon. Amon wasn’t there yet, but he was close enough. Already he could smell rank water, surely blowing from the Sanzu River.
There was only one thing left to do. Before he went bankrupt, he had to get to the bankdeath camps. He might die there, but so be it. Dying was better than being captured and drained of information, for that would mean the end of his chances to expose the corruption, to prove that Rick was murdered, to vindicate himself. It would mean the end of his dream. Yes, his dream was still alive. Its heart had stopped, but some relentlessly hopeful impulse in him had resuscitated it at the last moment. And so long as it still breathed, he would never give up. The forest was close. He could almost hear the surf.
Faint, wispy images half-materialized and then disappeared in the air about him. He thought he saw a dancing ballerina—or was it a puppet? A comb running through hair or a tractor in a field of wheat? A metal scrapyard or a closeup on human skin? Each time they vanished before his mind could grasp what they were. These were InfoGhosts, a rare phenomena said to occur only in that liminal state where humidity was high but not quite high enough to become mist. It was as though spirit voices had crept excitedly across the threshold between the digital and naked realms, eager for his imminent arrival.
To his dismay, the rate of inflation suddenly surged, the increased interest and higher action prices rapidly devouring his last bit of money. He wasn’t going to cross the Sanzu River in time. He had to do it now.
Turning onto a small side street, Amon went down a narrow alley between condominium towers, crouched beneath a second floor balcony, and sat on the concrete ground with his back against the wall and his legs splayed out in front. He then put a hand on his chest, accessed his system registry, and recalled to mind the correct string. Finally, he entered the Death Codes into his own BodyBank, but paused a moment before initializing the command. Was this the right thing to do? He had thought it through, and there was no other way. Only an Identity Executioner like him could pull it off. By committing identity suicide, he would cash crash without going bankrupt. Then he could keep his BodyBank with all its evidence and his location would never be unblinded. Then he could escape. Then he would have a new kind of hope, however faint and fragile it might be.