A short-haired woman and a baby in a grove of cherry trees. Their frozen smiles beamed out at Blues from the photo sleeve of Mr. Mitsui's wallet. From behind his shades and paper surgical mask, Blues stared back with silent intensity.
Of the most recent additions to his still-developing consciousness, one that surprised him the most was his ability to visualize the future. Where before his projections would have been shady and ill-defined, they were now vivid and delineated themselves into sequences of steps.
This is how he imagined the next few days would unfold: he would go to Tokyo. He would find Mr. Mitsui's house. He would tell Ms. Mitsui what he'd seen and where it had happened. People would go to that spot on the mountain, retrieve Mr. Mitsui's body, and then—after a process which to Blues was still hazy—Mr. Mitsui's urn and photograph would appear in the family butsudan. Ms. Mitsui would cry: if the fragments of human behavior Blues had witnessed so far were any indication, being alive wasn't a necessary condition of being loved. It had been true for Catherine, and it would be true for Mr. Mitsui too.
Would the baby cry? Blues wasn't sure.
Nevermind. The order in which things would happen, the cause and effect, were all right; that part made sense. What didn't yet make sense was why he was going to Tokyo.
A feeling of dissatisfaction crept over him, as if there were pieces that needed to be rearranged, patterns waiting to be filled in. It was similar to the way he'd felt years ago while trying to solve one of his creators' logic puzzles, except that what perplexed him now wasn't an abstract image on a netscreen but the inner workings of his own heart.
When he'd made his promise to Mr. Mitsui, it had felt automatic, effortless. Now, almost twenty four hours later, he'd had time to think about it, and was at last somewhat able to explain his feelings to himself. The reason was that he could see her, Ms. Mitsui, pacing by the door waiting for her husband to come home. If she hadn't been worried last night, she was certainly worried today. Blues watched her in his mind's eye, peering out the window, her ear pressed up against her netphone as she called his family, his friends, his boss—anyone he knew—asking if they'd heard from him. And they'd all said they hadn't.
No one could tell her where he was. No one, that is, except Blues.
It was uncomfortable—stuffy and hot, like this train he was riding—this sensation of looking through another person's eyes and thinking their thoughts. He'd never realized he could do it so well until now.
But the more he did it, the less the stinging in his leg bothered him. The more he imagined poor Mr. Mitsui's body all alone on that mountain, the less alone he felt.
Why couldn't he peer into Nurtech's thoughts? If he knew where they were searching for him, it would be so easy to avoid them. He wouldn't have to be afraid...
"Silly," said Kalinka's voice. Beneath her teasing, sing-song tone, Blues detected a hint of sadness. "It doesn't work that way."
The wallet trembled in his hands when he remembered where he was. Hastily, he returned it to his backpack and hid his fists in the pockets of his shorts. Just now he wanted more than anything to count his energy cells, but of course he couldn't do that here.
Five. There are still five, you idiot. Same as before.
From across the sparsely populated carriage, a pair of eyes looked askance in his direction. Then, inaudible whispers passed between seatmates. Blues looked down at his faded, mud-stained clothes, and the yellow scarf tied ridiculously around the scorch mark on his leg, and worried that this journey had been a mistake.
They'll know what I am.
Get a hold of yourself. They won't.
The train filled with passengers as it rolled southward toward Shizuoka. Old people eyed him with simultaneous looks of suspicion and concern. Groups of schoolchildren giggled. Each time the train pulled into the next station and opened its doors, he had to fight the urge to run away. His right leg continued to sting behind its makeshift swathe, and he half-expected at any moment to look up to see the two bandana-wearing men pointing their glinting plasma rifles at him and laughing.
If they caught him, what would they do? Take him to Nurtech to get his head "opened up and taken apart," as Dr. Wily had said? Would anyone try to help him? Would Dr. Light even know? His hands wandered up to his temples of their own volition, as if trying to keep the contents of his head securely inside. But frightened though he was to be here, surrounded by people whose intentions he couldn't guess, going back wasn't an option. His house, and his mountain, weren't safe anymore. He reached down again into his pocket and squeezed at his ticket, which he'd awkwardly purchased with some of the cash from Mr. Mitsui's wallet. With a muted sigh, he remembered his promise and settled deeper into his seat.
He'd never seen so many people before. They occupied nearly every space except the two on either side of him. Some of them stood clutching the grab handles or leaning against the doors. They buried their faces in their netphones, or pretended to sleep, or stared downwards. Some of them, Blues realized, were staring at the holes in his shoes.
They smelled like shampoo, or perfume, or hair cream, or coffee. A few gave off other odors which Blues had not yet learned to recognize, both pleasant and unpleasant. Baby powder. Dry cleaning. Cigarettes.
What did he smell like? Dirt and river water, he supposed.
The chorus of cicadas outside droned on; even the walls and windows of the train weren't enough to muffle out their noise. Small though they were, they were full of life and determined to make their presence known—but within two weeks, Blues remembered with a twinge of pity, every last one would have gone silent.
A burst of laughter from the other side of the car shook Blues out of his thoughts.
"Give it back," said a jesting male voice. "That's my ex-girlfriend's."
"You're right," teased a second. "It looks better on her, anyway."
"Ticket check, please," said a third voice in a high-pitched monotone. This was followed by the rapid click-click of multiple netphone cameras.
The sound triggered a host of painful memories, and Blues's first impulse was to cross his arms and turn away. Click-click, click-click. He shifted awkwardly in his seat. It was relentless. When, at last, he'd convinced himself to stop being stupid, that the cameras weren't aimed at him, he looked in the direction of the noise. It took him a minute or more to realize what he was seeing.
A squat, boxy, child-sized machine, vaguely humanoid in shape, was wheeling itself at a glacial pace down the aisle of the carriage. It stopped in front of a middle-aged woman and blinked at her with two blue, orb-like eyes. A pair of lacy pink underwear had been stretched over its "head."
"Ticket check, please," it said again, undisturbed.
The woman glared up in distate at the group of teenage boys holding netphones. A thin, scowling man beside her jumped to his feet, yanked the panties off the machine, and shoved them into the tallest boy's pocket.
"Quit being a goddamned nuisance," he said, "or I'll get the police after you at the next stop."
"Oh no, not the police," said another boy, as the train slowed into the station. "Sorry, old guy. We're so sorry."
"Sorry," said each of the other boys in turn, obviously not sorry. The exited the train together, chortling, with their hands in their pockets. The man sat down again and mumbled something to the woman beside him about "kids these days."
The robot continued to roll itself at a leisurely pace down the aisle. At last it stopped in front of Blues, who, with a strange feeling of foreboding, raised his head with hesitation.
"Ticket check, please," it said innocently.
Blues felt he ought to say something, but he didn't know what. He blinked up into the robot's big, round eyes, and the robot blinked back. Blues had the unsettling impression that it was looking at him without really seeing him.
"Perhaps you might check your pocket, sir?" it said affably, through a small speaker in place of a mouth, as it cocked its perfectly spherical head to one side.
"Um... right," said Blues, and fished around for the little paper rectangle. He held it out to the robot, unsure what to do next.
"Here," it said, and with its stubby white hands indicated a little black slot built into its right shoulder.
Blues put the ticket in; the ticket came back out. The robot's eyes seemed to curl upward in a kind of lifeless but affirming smile. "Thanks, sir. Have a nice trip," it said, turned, and continued blithely down the aisle.
Blues stared after it as though in a trance, gripped by a confusion he couldn't easily put to words. At first he felt an odd sort of gratitude. The robot hadn't seemed to notice his grubby clothes or the scarf around his leg, or care that his face and eyes were covered. It had said "thank you" and called him "sir." Fundamentally, he supposed, the thing was the same as him: a program running on a complex set of logarithmic subroutines, attached to a body capable of manipulating its environment. But there was nothing of himself that Blues recognized in this other being. Pulled grudgingly back to the moment he'd been woken up at Nurtech on the morning of his first birthday, at last the looks of shock he'd seen on Morita's and Ogata's faces made sense. Perhaps they'd expected to talk with something more like that, not someone like him, someone capable of feeling fear, and anger, and humiliation?
Suddenly, envy welled up in him as he watched the robot wheel itself toward the other side of the car. It didn't mind being laughed at. It didn't mind being photographed without permission. It didn't mind being talked about as though it were just an object. It would never know, or care, if it had been lied to. Of course, it wouldn't mind if its creator one day decided to erase its programming and replace it with something else. If it were hunted it wouldn't be afraid, and if it were shot it wouldn't be hurt. And—a wave of all-too-familiar pain swelled just then in Blues's stomach, which reminded him—it would never know what it was like to die.
Perhaps the thing was powered by energy cells? It wouldn't harm anyone, surely, if Blues took one or two? Perhaps, when no one was looking, he could...
Forget it. It's impossible.
Still, by force of habit, he found himself scrutinizing the back end of the machine for a panel like those he'd seen on farm equipment and motorbikes, which he could pry open and...
That's when he noticed the three words engraved onto one of the robot's stocky white "legs," in bold, silver-colored letters:
LIGHT LABS, Inc.
Without thinking Blues scooted forward in his seat in an attempt to get a better view. Then the robot turned toward another passenger and the words disappeared from sight—and Blues, suddenly conscious of how strange he must look, willed himself to lean back and bowed his head again toward his lap. Rapt, and unsettled, he continued to follow the robot out of the corner of his eye. Again it turned, and again the words appeared.
Just then the train pulled into another station. The doors opened, and family of yellow-haired tourists stepped on towing suitcases behind them, blocking Blues's line of sight.
"Over here, now," the man said in English, and sidled toward the window. "It'll be on the left this time."
"We know, Dad," said a girl in long braids, looking bored. "Haven't we seen enough of it? I mean, you dragged us up there."
"It's too cloudy, anyway," said a boy, as he pulled a set of headphones over his ears. "It's rained most of the time we've been here."
With his one free hand, the man took his camera out of his pocket and held it up to the window. "This is our last chance," he said, doggedly cheerful. The train shook on its track, his feet shifted beneath him, and he swayed a little to catch his balance. "That gap in the trees... I think it was right up ahead..."
"I'll hold your suitcase for you, dear," said his wife longsufferingly. "Just keep two hands on the camera."
As if by some kind of enchantment the forest just then gave way to a sprawling vista over the valley below. Beyond the heads of the passengers sitting across the aisle, Blues was able to distinguish distant patches of flat green farmland—vast squares of tall, waving stalks of rice—and then, towering above it all...
Beep, went the man's camera as Blues jumped to his feet.
He gathered up the canvas backpack he'd kept cradled between his ankles and gently pushed his way toward the window.
Darkened by the lenses of the sunglasses he was too frightened to remove, the bluish-purple base of the mountain stretched across the horizon, sloping starkly upwards into a mass of dark grey clouds.
Blues let out a gasp—then, embarrassed that someone might hear, he shut his mouth and squeezed his lips together.
He wondered whether Mr. Mitsui had come this way. Yes, he had: Blues was sure of it. Perhaps he'd taken this exact car, inserted his ticket into the right shoulder of the same Light Labs robot, beheld the same view of Mt. Fuji, for just a moment, through the opening in the trees. The mountain and Mr. Mitsui's mind had joined to create a kind of beauty only Mr. Mitsui could see. And all the while, he'd carried a bottle of shochu, a length of rope, and a packet of pills in his bag.
Why had he done it? Blues's infant empathy, powerful thing though it was, could not tell him for certain. "When there`s no other way out," Dr. Wily had said once, long ago, "there are humans, sometimes, who take matters into their own hands." Mr. Mitsui had felt trapped, perhaps as trapped as Blues had felt that cold January night when he'd heaved the jug of kerosene above his head. Blues had never wanted to die, and perhaps Mr. Mitsui hadn't wanted to either. Perhaps the only difference between them was that, for Mr. Mitsui, there had been no window.
Blues felt his imagination beginning to run away. Perhaps Mr. Mitsui had been on this train during the earthquake or one of its aftershocks... What had happened then? Perhaps, when the track had begun to shudder, the train had come to a sudden stop...
Then something pulled Blues's eyes back to the mountain, and his mind snapped to the present.
A small black oval stood out against the grey clouds that hung over the mountain, like a hole cut into the sky. Blues blinked once, then twice, hoping it was just another image conjured by his imagination, like the picture of Ms. Mitsui pacing in front of the door. But it wasn't. He recognized it at once as the wheel-shaped object that had hovered in front of him in the woods the previous night. Although the mountain was sliding ever so slowly to the left as the train continued south, the object remained fixed in its relative position to the window. Blues realized with horror that it was flying along at the same speed as the train. It seemed to be following him.
As quickly as the vision had appeared, it was swallowed up by a wall of green.
He glanced wildly at the other passengers around him, wondering if anyone else had noticed. No one was looking; at the moment, the yellow-haired man was turned with his back to the east window, handing the camera to his children who had quietly claimed Blues's empty seat on the other side of the aisle.
Don't panic, he told himself. Perhaps this was normal. Perhaps those objects were commonplace, serving some practical purpose which he was not aware of. In desperation he jerked his head right toward the ticket-check robot, as if it might be able to offer some explanation—but it was still and silent at the end of the aisle, blinking good-naturedly at the interior of the car as if keenly waiting for the chance to be of use.
Blues shrank back from the window and steadied himself against one of the grab-rails. The woman in the seat in front of him glanced down at the scarf around his leg, then at his shoes. Blues squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could be anywhere else. The people clicking their netphone cameras, the memory of the bandana-wearing men, the Light Labs robot, the hovering wheel, the haunting vision of Ms. Mitsui sketched vividly by his own mind: it was too much. At the next stop, he decided, no matter where it was, he would get off the train, hand over his ticket, and run for the cover of the woods. He had his generator and enough energy cells to last for weeks. He had the money in Mr. Mitsui's wallet, too, which seemed to him like a small fortune. He'd be all right, if only he kept moving.
I'm sorry, he said to the image of Ms. Mitsui in his head. I couldn't, I just couldn't...
"Blues," said Kalinka, "you can't go back."
Blues opened his eyes. She was right, of course. She was wise, and she knew the future. Her voice was so clear, so decided. He could almost feel her hand on his shoulder...
Then the train stopped with a force that pushed Blues sideways, and the rubber soles of his shoes squeaked against the floor. The yellow-haired man went careening up the aisle: in an attempt to steady himself he leaned into his wife, who was clutching the grab-rail as though her life depended on it. The children screamed, then laughed. From every corner of the carriage, shouts of protest rang out, followed by apologies.
A few moments later, the door at the front of the car opened and the conductor stepped out. He sucked in air through his teeth. It was a sound Blues hadn't heard in years: the same sound of disquiet Ogata had made after Blues had cried out while being pricked by Morita's needle. The sound of not knowing quite how to proceed.
The man opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and at last blurted out:
"Anyone headed to Kanaya Station or beyond?"
More than half the passengers in the car raised their hands or shouted out a "yes, I am." Too timid to call attention to himself, Blues looked up but didn't answer. Kanaya was where he'd planned to transfer to the eastbound rapid express for Tokyo. It was the only route he knew of.
"Well, I'm awfully sorry to tell you this, folks, but the line's got to terminate here..." The conductor squeezed his primly gloved hands together and forced a solemn smile. "For safety reasons, we can't take you any further. You see... There's been some kind of... attack. I don't know how else to say this...
"Kanaya Station... is gone."
