Life is a Beautiful Thing (4-Book Box Set)

by Harmon Cooper

  Yamanote line from Shinjuku to Shibuya. Once in Shibuya, Yeshi moved through the crowd towards exit 11, the National Children’s Castle exit. She’d been searching on blacksites since leaving Shinjuku, reading through thousands upon thousands of documents related to weapon procurement in Asia.

  She’d start with the weapons. Once she had a few of those, she’d move on to a new body for Meme. There was always someone wanting to trade bodies, you just needed to know where to look. A Techback would be able to help for sure.

  The weapons dealer she had decided on was what the Japanese called a Hikikamori, which was essentially a recluse. This particular recluse dealt weapons from the bottom floor of the apartment building he owned. His name was Madoka and he came highly recommended, earning an 4.9 star average on Help! – a site dedicated to keeping score of the underground.

  Yeshi walked quickly along the street that led to Omotesando. Most of the shops were closed aside from a few ramen spots. She glanced up at the massive buildings surrounding the street. Glitzy advertisements cascaded across their windows, some targeted at passing aeros and others at pedestrians.

  On her left was a store selling designer handbags with matching pollution masks. Two rail-thin models stood in the store window, occasionally changing their positions. These, of course, were Humandroids, who were essentially being used as moving manikins. The Japanese Humandroid industry didn’t have a government sponsored therapy program for their droids; Yeshi could only imagine the pent up rage some of these droids must have.

  It was theoretically impossible for Humandroids to rebel against their creators, to slay their Homo sapiens mothers and fathers. Dozens of stop measures had been hard-wired into the droids, most of which worked rather well. Even with hacks on blacksites and illegal apps, it was nearly impossible for a normal Humandroid to countermand their programming. Oddly enough, both Yeshi and her twin Rinchi had bucked the system using the same overrides they used on their violence governor for masochistic clients.

  Machine learning, evolution, adaptation. No matter how clever humans became, their inventions would eventually surpass them. Yeshi understood this, as did some of the humans she’d met in her former profession.

  “You will replace us,” she remembered one businessman saying as she gave him a blow job. “My species will be replaced! Ha! Who would have thought!?”

  “You think so?” she asked, moving away from his member.

  “Honey, I know so. It took humans thousands and thousands of years to evolve to what you see now. It will take Humandroids such as yourself a few more decades. Our roles will reverse, but I’ll be dead by then so… haha! Who the fuck cares?”

  “Do you want me to continue?” she asked as she wiped her chin.

  “I didn’t say stop!”

  Without question, Homo machina would evolve. The question then became how Homo sapiens fit into this equation. At their core, they were an essentially useless mammal. Sure, they could think and build massive structures and genetically modify themselves and other organic critters, but all those things could now be done by the nearly-human individuals that they had themselves created.

  The question then became: should the slaves overthrow their masters? Humandroids weren’t entertained by televised sports and frivolous things. The same pressure the elite class of humans placed on the other classes (from distraction to financial pressure) didn’t apply to Humandroids. Humandroids had no reason to blindly accept their fate in society. They didn’t think they’d somehow win the lottery or suffer from the same delusions as the lower classes of humans. They were programmable, sure, but they weren’t so easily malleable.

  But then again, Yeshi wasn’t logical like other Humandroids. She enjoyed painting, reading paperback books, speed-watching old movies. Maybe this was the final outcome of the machine learning that would plague the Humandroids – maybe they’d become easily distracted, just like their human counterparts. Maybe they would become closer to Homo sapiens by their devotion to personal amusement.

  Maybe.

  Yeshi stopped in front of the weapon dealer’s building. The building consisted of a single room that stretched five stories into the darkened sky. The room was no larger than a bedroom, a constant reminder of the space available in the Tokyo sprawl. Looking up at the place, Yeshi assumed that Madoka lived on top.

  She had just pressed a small buzzer on the wall panel next to the door when she heard ominous hum of a Humgun powering up behind her.

  SIXTEEN∞

  “I’m here for weapons,” Yeshi said in Japanese as she looked down the business end of the Humgun pointed at her face.

  “What for?”

  The Humandroid kept the Humgun aimed at her face.

  “Why do you have a straw basket over your head?” she asked.

  “I’m asking the questions here. Why do you require weapons?”

  “I’m being hunted by the FCG and MercSecure along with my partner, who is human.”

  He kept his weapon aimed at her. “Why is MercSecure hunting you?”

  He looked quite comical with the basket over his head but she answered him anyway. “Open a private link and I’ll send you all the data, video and otherwise. It’s complicated.”

  He lowered his weapon a few seconds later. “I see. They are hunting you because your human, Meme Lamar, punched ExEx CEO Sauria in a pollute bar which led to MercSecure sending a representative after him, whom you subsequently killed. This act placed you high on the FCG’s terrorist list, which is also administered by MercSecure, a company partially owned by Sauria. After your human gave birth to a baby in someone else’s body, both of you escaped to Japan through some Mexican drug cartel channels. Sound about right?”

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Congratulations. Access has been granted.”

  An electronic bell sounded and the door popped open. The Humandroid walked in front of her. “The basket on my head is called a tengai, and its first purpose is to demolish ego. It is also a disguise I’ve been working on. I’m actually a ninja disguised as a kumosō, if that means anything to do you.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “GoogleFace it.”

  “Does it work?” she asked. “Has your ego been eradicated?”

  “I can’t tell. I’ve scanned through hundreds of Tibetan and Sanskrit texts looking for answers regarding ego eradication. This led me to translated Chinese and Japanese treaties on enlightenment. Now I’m trying to understand more nuanced sources, works from the Tamang people of Nepal and pieces etched into stone by the Bön shamans of Upper Mustang. The problem with my research is that it leads to more research, which leads to more research until I feel as if I’ve arrived back where I started – an unenlightened being created by humans to perform some task to advance their society. Then again, maybe this is ego elimination. Maybe realizing what I actually am will allow me to continue dismembering my individuality.”

  “Can you send me what you’ve uncovered? I too am … ” she thought of the right word. “Searching.”

  “Done. I’ve included my translations of the texts as well.”

  “Domo arigato, Mister Robot-o.” Yeshi bowed to cover her grin; that sounded like something Meme would say, she thought to herself

  “This way,” he said, ignoring her last statement.

  She followed him into a darkened room. Her pupils quickly dilated as her thermal imaging activated. She noticed the heat signature of a human on the second floor, sitting in a virtual entertainment rig with his knees curled to his chest.

  The lights came on. The basket-headed Humandroid in ninja garb turned to her and said, “Careful, Madoka doesn’t like being watched.”

  “I assumed he lived on the fourth or fifth floor,” she said.

  “His girlfriend lives on the fourth floor. The fifth floor is storage.”

  “Girlfriend? I thought he was a recluse.”

  “Yes,” the Humandroid said, “but they rarely meet in person. Maybe once a year … th
eir entire relationship is virtual. They are members of some Proxima dreamworld, where they have exorbitant amounts of wealth. He sells weapons to pay the electric bills, the rent and to buy things online.”

  “And you do the selling for him?”

  “Precisely.”

  He removed the basket covering his head. He was the Japanese version of a Neunbolt, an older Humandroid model less advanced than Yeshi. He was shorter than Yeshi and thin. On his feet was a pair of designer jika-tabi, a type of sandal with a split between the big toe, allowing the sandal to be worn with a pair of socks. Still, he was fast and undetectable, which meant he’d been heavily modded. “How did you appear behind me without me detecting you?” she asked.

  “Humandroids – even advanced droids such as yourself – have things we can learn from humans, especially things from enlightened humans who have since ascended to a higher plane. This current breed of humans lacks the drive and willpower to accomplish what many have done in the past, including feats of ninjitsu.”

  “Agreed,” she said, “and suitably mystical, but that doesn’t explain the fact that you’re emitting none of the usual electro-magnetic signals we droids all radiate; I should have been able to detect you.”

  His face briefly reflected inner amusement. “There’s an app for that – true, it’s an old idiom, but it still applies.”

  “So it was an app,” she said. “Can you send me data on this app? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  He placed his hands across his stomach, mimicking a human yawn. “I can include the app as part of your package. It’s only available via direct distribution from another carrier. But enough small talk – shall we see some weapons?”

  _∞_

  Shake me awake as I wait for Yeshi to return.

  Shake me alive as I come up with lies.

  Exhale.

  I love God. I love GoogleFace. I love Allah. I love AppleSoft. I love Jehovah. I love Yeshi. I love Jesus. I love Yeezus. I love Buddha. I love cherry Coca-Cola. I love Padmasambhava. I love Meme. I love me. I love Meme. I love me. I love all one thousand names of Shiva. I love Joseph Smith and spiritual weddings. I love L. Ron Hubbard and the fact that people are stupid enough to accept a religion created by a science fiction writer.

  Inhale.

  Shake my hand and let’s call it even. Let’s call the house we destroyed ours and the people we’ve met them. Let’s call the places we’ve been memories and the people we’ve lost deceased. Let’s call in sick. Let’s infect each other, disease each other, cure each other while we share the same feet.

  Let’s create new pronouns and nouns, new ways to refer to one another when we’re down for the count. Let’s never use the first person singular again. Let’s violate our senses, electrocute ill-gotten rainbows with our fingertips, kiss each other’s eyelids in the dark after we’ve changed sexes, burn initials into our arms as glam hexes, carve our names into the trunk of a forgotten oak tree in a children’s park after the fall.

  Let’s bathe in each other’s digital waterfalls.

  We occupy the same urinal in the bathroom of time, cutting up fine lines on stainless steel toilet paper dispensers. We’re on the same pew at church, cursing the back-breaking bench and the way it slowly grinds against our tailbone. We ride the same bus to work, shoe-horned in with the helpless masses smacking gum like twerking asses. We walk the same hallowed hallways; we arrive at the same torture chambers.

  We are the food pyramid. We are the War on Terror. We are the salt in each other’s wounds. We are the children of the sun, the bastards of the twenty-first century. We simply are. And there isn’t a verb or eschatological concept that can stop us when we finally get our shit together.

  SEVENTEEN∞

  **The following conversation took place in Spanish at a hotel in the Agua Caliente district in Tijuana, Mexico. It has been translated by the late José Alberto Del Castillo Cabeza Mercedes Acosta III for our monolingual audience.

  The elevator door opened and Nelly-as-Tyro stepped onto Carloza’s floor. They were in the penthouse of the El Pito Grande Hotel y Casino, an establishment known for its phallic shape. Noah was a floor below, having an upgraded body attached to his severed head. For her part, Nelly still had a bed sheet wrapped around her waist.

  Manuel, Carloza’s bald thug, cleared his throat. “Remember … ” He pointed down at her k-bracelet. “Don’t try anything loco.”

  “How could I forget?” she said as curtly as possible. Manuel was in his late thirties. He was fit, with the thousand yard stare of one who had seen, done, and experienced much. His shoulders were broad, his features chiseled. He had been handsome at some point in his life. All jobs take their toll.

  “This way.”

  Manuel led Nelly through an arched doorway to a spiral staircase that extended to the next floor. A huge mural by Diego Rivera hung from the wall. The head of a wooly mammoth was attached to the opposite wall, its procurement made possible through de-extinction, a cloning technology developed in the 2030s. The irony that an extinct animal was resurrected only to become a taxidermist’s wet dream slipped past Nelly, who was too busy thinking of what she should do next. One thing was for certain – she didn’t want to become a pawn in Carloza’s game.

  The door at the top of the stairs swung open and a truck-sized man stepped out. He scanned Manuel and Nelly-as-Tyro with one glance, dismissing them as non-threats.

  “I don’t remember Carloza being so serious the last time we met,” she said to Manuel.

  “He has several enemies who have made it clear they want him dead. Also, being a parent has made him paranoid.”

  “That’s my baby.” She took her Leaks off and scratched the side of her nose.

  “Yes, you said that fifteen times on the way over.” Manuel ascended the spiral staircase with Nelly in tow. He walked with the slightest limp, which was something she hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “You have a bionic leg, don’t you?” she asked.

  He looked down at her. “Yes and a left arm.” He flexed the fingers on his left hand. His skin was dry and his nails needed trimming. There was no indication whatsoever that it wasn’t a normal human hand.

  The two arrived at the top of the stairs. The beefy man with the oculator stepped aside, letting them pass into the main room.

  “Nelly!”

  Carloza sat behind a white desk with a bean-shaped marble top. Two trumpet-shaped pedestals separated the desk from the ground. White couches with oval bases sat on either side of his desk, perfect for perching and using pollutes. A portion of the wooden floor opened and an oddly-shaped chair lifted into the room. On the opposite wall hung the Freda motif Nelly had seen countless times before during their iNet conversations.

  “Good, right?” Carloza asked, looking her over. He opened his mouth to say something about her appearance but quickly thought otherwise.

  “Hola, Carloza.”

  “Please sit.”

  He took his mask off and placed it on his desk. His hair – her hair – bounced down to his shoulders, freed from the mask. Nelly was keeping her cool now, listening patiently for his henchmen to step out of the room. They would still be watching once the door was shut, but even the smallest amount of privacy was better than nothing.

  “Do you like the mask?” He detached the distributor hose and made a gesture for her to take it.

  “I’m not interested in the mask.”

  “Come on, Nelly, take a look at it. This mask cost me a quarter of my life’s savings! It’s a Celiné Thylacine mask with diamond eye lenses. There are only two like it in the world. Last I checked, the president of FIFA owns the other one, speaking of corrupt bastards! Come on, take a look. I’m sure you’ve never touched a Thylacine before.”

  “Which is?”

  He laughed like it was common knowledge. “A Tasmanian tiger. They went extinct in the twentieth century, but now they are de-extinct.”

  She reached forward and took the mask off the table. It was heavier t
han she expected, but it felt good in her hands. She looked at Carloza, which was almost like looking at yourself in a mirror and watching your reflection make gestures you weren’t used to making.

  “You look like shit in my body,” she finally said.

  “It definitely isn’t as intimidating as my original one, but given some time, I can toughen it up.”

  “By toughen do you mean fatten? Because seriously, Carloza, if you fuck up my body I will make sure you pay dearly.”

  He laughed. “Lots of talk for someone with a k-bracelet on.”

  “I’m just telling you now. I’ve followed a strict diet for years and I can already tell by the complexion of your skin – I mean, my skin – that you’re shoveling poison into it.”

  “Relax, Nelly, so feisty you are!” He laughed. “All this coming from a woman who shows up to my office in a toga! Had I known there was going to be a party, I would have hired some dancers or something. Maybe some tres leches cake. Maybe a piñata and some cerveses.”

  She was trying not to smile, but it was impossible. Carloza was speaking to her in a dopey Mexican-American accent that always made her laugh. It was even stranger coming from her voice box (as he was in her body). “People still drink beers in Mexico?” she finally asked.

  “My people drink beer, smoke marijuana, do lines of coke and keep our pollute masks on the tops of our heads. We are still… what’s the English word for it?”

  “Stupid?” Nelly asked.

  “Ha! Your new body is funny. The English word is old school. We are still old school here in Mexico. You know how we do.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right, so let’s get down to business.”

  “There is no business to get down to, Nelly. You bring me my body back and I’ll give you your body back. Oh and before I forget, I tried to find some info on that house you were staying at. It’s registered to some place in Cuba. I contacted my amigo who lives in Havana and he sent some guys to check it out.”