by Kōji Suzuki
He saw that adorable little body he’d embraced so many times dashed on the stone from the height of a man’s head. All his thoughts focused on his dying daughter, but his body wouldn’t obey him. It wasn’t pain he felt so much as a burning sensation. It was impossible even to know all the places he was injured. The pain was beside the point. He was prepared to die, and fear was a luxury he couldn’t afford at this point. What he found unbearable was the violence being visited on those close to him, their unforeseen extinction.
He watched as once again his daughter’s body was raised up to the same height and then slammed to the ground. She must be dead by now. And so her pliant, lifeless body was abandoned among the rocks.
The man who’d been tossing his daughter’s body about had evidently found something else to entertain him, because he tramped across the grass into the trees.
Kaoru was able to follow his leisurely movements with his eyes. As he walked, the man was rubbing the backs of his hands on his shirttails, which hung down over his trousers. What was he doing? Blood streaked his once-white shirt. Not just blood: bits of flesh clung to the fabric. Was that his daughter’s blood, her flesh? The man kept wiping his hands on his shirt as if shaking off something filthy; finally he rubbed them on his trousers.
He could hear his wife’s voice, faintly. He could tell she was somewhere nearby. But no matter which way he turned his gaze, he couldn’t find her. Perhaps she was sunk down in the underbrush. All Kaoru could see were the men standing or half-kneeling around her.
The hand holding his hair shifted its grip. It forced his head back even more powerfully, so that his throat was fully exposed to the sun directly overhead. He could see another sharp flash of light, not from the sun. This light moved quickly from right to left.
There was a gurgling in his throat, and then a whistling sound. He felt a hot liquid on his chest. His head seemed to have fallen even father back.
The sun’s rays changed hue, gradually growing in intensity, until the background faded into monochrome and the darkness increased. The red sun gradually blackened, and his retinas were steeped in darkness. His hearing alone still seemed to be functioning.
He could hear his wife’s cries. It sounded less like she was wailing in misery than that she was laughing weakly. His ears picked up her voice until the moment his consciousness disappeared. The woman he’d shared his time with, at least in this world.
His own death and the deaths of his loved ones had come at the same time.
6
Kaoru sat for a while slumped in the chair, immersed in darkness. To an innocent bystander he would have looked simply tired. But what Kaoru had experienced was death itself: his body was now just his soul’s empty husk.
The sensations he’d experienced at the moment of death were not the same as losing consciousness. Even when a person has fainted, the brain continues to function. What Kaoru had known for a brief instant was the stopping of his heart, and the gentle sensation of time and space flickering out as his brain died.
He heard a voice beyond the darkness.
“Time to wake up.”
It was a man’s voice, powerful yet restrained.
“Come here,” the voice ordered, before disappearing along with its echoes.
Kaoru shuddered, and then jumped up out of the chair. He sucked in great gulps of air, and unconsciously his body extended itself. He was like a drowning man seeking air, trying to force his head above water.
He tore the helmet display from his head and flung it onto the desk. He ripped off the data gloves and threw them down beside it.
He felt like his heart was being squeezed. He lowered his body into the chair again and tried to bring his breathing under control. The more his body reaccustomed itself to a real environment, the more violently his heart beat. The memories were still fresh and clear.
He realized he had tears streaming from his eyes. Waves of inexpressible emotion, not quite sadness and not quite pain, washed over him.
He collapsed onto the desk and wept. Telling himself it wasn’t real didn’t help to calm his roiling feelings. Looking at his wristwatch and calculating that he’d spent less than an hour and a half in the helmet was no comfort, either. When a minute corresponded to a year, time weighed heavily.
Kaoru had no idea who had made the virtual reality he’d just experienced, or how, but his feelings told him he’d lived a whole life in the other world. He’d loved a woman, had a child, fought for his people, and died, all in the other world. He’d lost his loved ones at the same time as he’d died—they’d been close enough to touch if only he’d been able to reach out his hand, but he’d been unable to save them.
“Laiche,” he was calling. It was a name, his wife’s name; he’d called her by it who knew how many times. He could remember them washing each other’s bodies in the river, touching each other’s skin. The sensations were still fresh.
“Cochise!” That was his daughter’s name. How many mountains had he crossed with her on his back or at his chest before she’d learned to walk?
He could remember their names. But when it came to his own name, his memory was vague. He could remember their faces, but his own was hazy. The pain of the moment of death was now mostly gone from his memory, too. What remained were recollections of his loved ones—and those overwhelmed him.
Kaoru got up shakily, went to the wall, and rammed his shoulder against it. Pain shot through him. He wanted that physical pain, to help him forget the ache in his heart.
I must analyze what this means, he told himself, hoping reason would help drive away the sadness.
The experience Kaoru had gone through was nothing like watching a movie. The only way he could describe it to himself was this: he had been inserted bodily into a virtual space. And that virtual space reproduced reality exactly. How was that possible? The questions were only beginning.
The Loop.
The first idea he had was that this virtual space might be part of the artificial life project.
He knew that it was possible to be present for any moment in the history of the Loop simply by donning a helmet display like the one he’d just used and setting the time and space coordinates. One could be as a god to the Loop life forms, watching them from on high, or one could use the sight and hearing of a particular individual and live a virtual life.
The patterns of the birth and history of the Loop life forms were all saved in a huge store of holographic memory. It was possible to witness any moment in its history.
Which was what made Kaoru guess that the world he’d just visited was part of the Loop. What he’d experienced was a physical expression light years beyond computer graphics, possible only because the Loop contained beings evolved from the program’s initial RNA life forms.
The bodies he’d touched, that he’d thereby grown to love, were real, not constructed. Just thinking back on them, Kaoru was moved.
The death and partings he’d undergone in the virtual world only strengthened his resolve. He couldn’t lose any more loved ones. How much more painful would parting be in the real world? He didn’t want to go through that again. He simply had to unlock the riddle of the MHC. He had to find a way to treat it.
The cancerization of the Loop is affecting the real world.
He was more convinced of that than ever. Just glimpsing a corner of the virtual world had shattered his emotions. The virtual world had affected him: why should it be strange that it was affecting the whole real world?
What did this room mean? Somebody had foreseen Kaoru’s coming and left behind this elaborate system to greet him. He figured that it had to be Rothman, but he couldn’t guess why.
But there had to be a reason. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been led here. And if he was being led, there was nothing else to do but follow whatever guidance was yet to come.
Maybe it was showing me where I should go.
His mother had shared with him that Native American folktale about a warrior guiding pe
ople westward. The tribe he’d belonged to in the virtual world had also believed in a place at the southern edge of the Rocky Mountains where they could live forever under the protection of the Great Spirit, and that belief had led them to move ever westward. The course they’d followed was still etched in Kaoru’s brain.
Death had come unexpectedly upon them only two peaks from their destination, but he could clearly remember the path up to that point. Though they’d camped for months at a time, still the journey, that path, had been their life.
Kaoru grasped what he was to do. I’m supposed to go the way the tribe went.
But there was something he needed to do first.
He had to make contact with Amano in Japan. Connecting then and there with Amano’s computer via satellite, he made a single request. Send visuals of Takayama and Asakawa ASAP. It was a request he’d already made once, before leaving Japan.
The Loop functioned on essentially the same scale as the real world. Billions of intelligent life forms living their lives, creating the histories of their ethnic groups. The amount of memory involved must be staggering. Amidst all that, Amano was trying to find the exact moments when the cancerization of the world began. No small task.
But if Amano could isolate that sequence, Kaoru would be able to use the helmet display and data gloves to conduct an investigation in real time. He’d first lock in on an individual in the Loop, searching for a clue as to why the cancer started. Who knew? Maybe that information would open everything up for him.
While waiting for Amano’s response, Kaoru was assailed by an irresistible desire to hear Reiko’s voice. What time was it in Japan right now? With seven hours’ time difference, it should be nine in the morning there. Was Reiko up yet? After experiencing the death of someone he loved in the virtual world, Kaoru really wanted to feel Reiko’s presence close to him. At the very least, he wanted to know how she was doing.
He dialed her number on his satellite phone.
It rang seven times before a drowsy voice said, “Hello?”
So evidently the real world was still there. Kaoru felt indescribable relief just to hear Reiko say “hello”. It was like emerging from a treacherous swamp and finding oneself on firm ground again.
“It’s me.”
A pause, while she collected herself. When she spoke again, the drowsiness was gone from her voice.
“Is that really you? Where are you? How are you?” She fired questions at him, all her worry for him coming to the fore. Kaoru was gratified to hear it.
He answered her queries one by one, and then said, “It’s alright. I want you to just relax and wait for me.”
Then he ended the call. There was no reason to talk forever.
7
He decided to take a nap on the bed while he waited for Amano’s response.
Kaoru figured he was the only one in the world to suspect the connection between the Loop and the cancer virus. It was of course possible that somebody else had arrived at the same conclusion differently, but he hadn’t had any information to that effect, and besides, if it hadn’t occurred to Amano, the man in charge of maintaining the Loop, then Kaoru felt that chances were he was the only person pursuing this angle. He hoped that by following his hunch, he might be able to shine some light on things that nobody had noticed before. He was sure that the Loop’s demise had been investigated any number of times. But that was twenty years ago, before MHC.
The Loop had turned entirely cancerous. Not long thereafter, the real world had seen the isolation of the Metastatic Human Cancer Virus, which was now starting to infect non-human populations, too. It certainly looked like it had spread from the Loop.
Then there was the strange coincidence that the nine genes which made up the MHC virus all had base totals that came to 2n x 3. This suggested to Kaoru that perhaps the source of the virus was a computer, something that thought in binary code.
Just as he started to nod off, the computer came to life. He went and sat down at the desk. Just as he’d thought, a reply from Amano. The screen displayed several steps for him to follow.
He followed the instructions, tapping on the keyboard. Then it was simply a matter of letting this computer access the relevant portion of the Loop memory.
Access complete.
Kaoru donned the helmet display and data glove, knowing this time what it meant.
The chronicle he’d been sent covered things seen and heard by a certain individual beginning in the summer of 1990, Loop time.
Everything was there for the viewing. If he specified, say, a time of 1990/10/04/14:39 and a place of 35.41°N/139.46°E, he’d be able to watch everything that took place there and then. By advancing the time coordinates while remaining in the same place, the chronicle would unfold on the display. There was a zoom function for a more exact location fix.
He could watch from a fixed viewpoint if he wished. He could specify, say, the fourth block of the Ginza district, and be able to observe any event taking place there in any age. The observer had the ability to look in absolutely any direction, could dart his gaze in between people on the street, could look around at everything like a ghost. The Loop inhabitants would be unaware of the observer, while the observer would be able to explore their world with the freedom of an invisible man.
Alternatively, the observer could lock into the perceptions of a single individual. This would allow the observer to meld his senses with his chosen character in the virtual world.
What Kaoru had in hand now were the memories etched in the brains of several persons. He wanted to observe the cancerization of the Loop from the perspective of someone intimately involved with it, just as he’d lived the entire life of a Native American man in a few minutes. He had at his disposal the experiences of several people, beginning with the one known as Takayama.
So what kind of life had this Takayama led? Kaoru was curious, but his fear outweighed his curiosity. He could be about to experience more unbearable heartache.
But by hesitating he’d only lose his courage. Kaoru started the program.
Of his own free will, Kaoru plugged into the Loop.
He seemed to be in a downtown coffee shop. Flashing neon signs outside the window cast brightly colored shafts of light into the shop. Takayama, the man onto whom Kaoru had locked, was seated at a table across from another man. The other man was the one known as Asakawa, Takayama’s friend. Asakawa was haggard; the sight of him aroused Kaoru’s pity. But of course he was haggard: the night before, he’d watched a videotape hideous like no other. Seeking someone to rescue him from the straits he’d found himself in, Asakawa had chosen Takayama. He’d called him here to the coffee shop today to explain the circumstances and ask for his advice.
Takayama took a piece of ice from the glass on the table, threw it in his mouth, and crushed it with his teeth. The chill spread through Kaoru’s mouth, too.
Asakawa was scared and keyed up, and as he told his story he was prone to get the order of things mixed up. Takayama was forced to reorganize Asakawa’s account in his own mind.
Asakawa’s miseries all stemmed from a cab ride he’d taken with an overly talkative driver. The driver had related to him an incident he’d witnessed at an intersection.
The driver had been stopped at a light when a motorcycle next to him had tipped over. The rider had died on the spot from what looked like a heart problem. With the glee of a kid telling scary stories, the cabbie spoke of how the rider had writhed and struggled, trying to take off his helmet. Asakawa’s life had changed forever as a result of this useless information.
On the basis of what the cab driver had told him, Asakawa had started looking into sudden deaths. He soon uncovered the fact that along with the motorcyclist, three other young people had died at the exact same time, with exactly the same symptoms, but in different places. One was Asakawa’s own niece. His curiosity was aroused. All four deaths had been recorded as the result of sudden heart failure, but his reporter’s instinct detected something untoward goi
ng on. Given the utter improbability of four kids dying of the same thing at exactly the same time, he felt there had to be a more convincing explanation.
He’d decided to look for commonalities between the four dead kids. It turned out that they were friends, and that exactly a week before their deaths they had been staying in a rented cabin in the mountains. Asakawa decided to check the place out: he departed immediately for the site, a members-only mountain resort, guessing that whatever had caused their deaths, they’d picked it up there.
Evidently Asakawa had initially suspected a virus. He thought they might have all contracted the same illness at the cabin, and thereby been scheduled for the baptism of death a week later.
But to his surprise, what Asakawa had discovered in the cabin was a videotape.
At that point, Takayama broke in and said, “First why don’t you let me have a look at that video.”
Asakawa looked to be stifling his irritation. “I told you, if you watch it your life might be in danger.”
Takayama took another piece of ice from his glass, put it in his mouth, and bumped it around a bit. Asakawa seemed to think he was being mocked.
But in the end, mortal danger or no, nothing was going to get done if he didn’t see the video. Takayama decided to go to Asakawa’s place and watch the video he’d brought home from the mountains.
Takayama sat in Asakawa’s living room, eyes glued to the TV screen. Through his eyesight, the images on the tape found their way into Kaoru’s brain.
The images were chaotic and fragmentary. The tape started with an erupting volcano. Next up was a newborn infant’s face in close-up. The sequence was fragmentary, and shifted quickly from one image to the next, but each scene left a strangely vivid impression, underlain by a baby’s cries and other sounds.
The images were neither computer graphics nor the result of filming with a television camera. They were made some other way. One might think of them as shots of another, lower virtual world created by some sentient being within the Loop.