The Naked World

by Eli K. P. William

  “But it only took a few days to see that I had made a mistake. Without a BodyBank, I had to depend on him for everything—not just food and water. I couldn’t turn on the tap in his apartment or the stove, or open the front door. As soon as he went out, it was like being in prison. And that’s exactly what the Fiscal Judiciary called it. According to CrediLaw, keeping bankdead in your home is a form of kidnapping and unwillful imprisonment. They say we lack the ability to give digital consent. So he was paying enormous fines just to have me around. He said he could afford it, but I had no way of checking his readout. For all I knew, he was just saying that to reassure me.

  “His apartment looked a bit worn out to me, but he saw no need to fix anything. It was immaculate in his eyes. There were furnishings I couldn’t see, like the mirror and the wallpaper. And the window looked out on a wall only a few centimeters away for me, while to him it overlooked a wide, open square full of people and trees. It was so enclosed and dim in there. The nighttime was the worst; the whole city went pitch black and no one knew it. They were like slugs crawling through caves. He bought me a little flashlight and a lamp from some nosties, but there was something so depressing about being alone in this one dim circle of light. And when I went outside at night a whole city’s worth of mosquitos and moths would swarm around my flashlight. It was awful. Then there was the problem with digimakes. He’d look so obviously exhausted but get irritated that I could see it. He’d set his apps to hide his expression and felt like I was cheating in being able to see through. I had no idea what I looked like to him. I know my living in the camps had weathered and aged me in those five years we were apart. So was he augmenting me? Had he applied youthening filters? I saw his naked face and I didn’t want him to see anything other than mine.

  “The worst part was that we couldn’t communicate anymore. We’d be talking and suddenly he’d get the Elsewhere Gaze, or he’d smirk or giggle or grimace at something I couldn’t see. Other times he’d start typing out a response to someone but try to keep our conversation going with his divided attention. Sometimes I’d ask him about what it was, but he didn’t want to explain every little thing that popped up on his eyescreen. There was so much information flowing through that constantly narrating it would have been a full-time job and then some. If I’d had a BodyBank he’d have been able to share his screen easily. Now so much of his life was inaccessible to me. I had grown used to life in the naked world and, when we were together, I wanted him to be there with me all the time. It was like living with a writer or an artist always thinking about their work, except far more lonely. I tried to explain this to him but the idea of focusing only on what was there was incomprehensible to him. How could he know what was there and what wasn’t? He couldn’t afford to access only the naked world as I could. There was no way for him to draw the borders. And even if he could, who was to say that what I was experiencing was really there any more than what he was? Maybe his experience was just richer than mine and I was acting like a child jealous of another child with more icing on her slice of cake.

  “Then there was winding down after work, which meant watching docupromos and entertisements that I couldn’t hear or see. He went to Jinbocho to get books and manga for me to entertain myself, but these were expensive and I wanted to get out more. Going out alone, I could only wander the streets. The doors wouldn’t open for me so I couldn’t get inside the stores, or if I followed someone in while a door was still open I could get trapped inside for hours. The default was to edit bankdead out of the ImmaNet feed, so usually I was invisible. If they could see me, I was fixed up to look like an office lady. I became something generic that fit into their view of how the city ought to be. They couldn’t see who I was any better than he could. He’d take me out sometimes when he had a bit of time. This turned into a nightly after-work ritual. It wasn’t really enough. I still had cabin fever. It was better than nothing, but I felt like a dog being walked. We weren’t a husband and wife in a sharing relationship. I was a weak, dependent thing that he held in the palm of his hand and sheltered from the harsh winds of the world. He had all the power and, as much as he wanted to let me take part in decision making, he started to decide where we’d go on our walks. He chose what restaurants he’d take me to and what we’d eat. Unconsciously, he was taking control of everything, and I was growing too weak to resist him. For the first while, he’d take me down to the track every morning or to a park about once a week. But I was growing lax in my training. One day I decided to stay in and just lie on the couch for hours. I knew then that I had to leave.

  “I couldn’t tell him I wanted to return to the camps because I knew he’d never accept it. So I waited a few days and stockpiled food and drinks for the journey. Then one morning I followed him out of the apartment as he headed off to work. He was so immersed in whatever was in his eyes and ears, he didn’t even notice. I broke into the District of Dreams by scaling the barrier on the Bridge of Compassion. At Delivery, I found that I’d been demoted to giftless and spent a few weeks in the Tumbles before applying at Xenocyst. At my hearing, the council asked me if I would ever go back again, implying that I might abandon the community. I told them no; I’d much rather be cramped physically and have to run vertically than be cramped mentally and have all the space in the world.

  “Still he comes looking for me. The first time he came back I explained why I couldn’t live with him—but he’s stubborn. Ultimately, he isn’t willing to go bankrupt to be here with me and I’ve learned that I can never return with him, as much as I might have loved him once.”

  When Vertical was finished, Amon sat there stunned, his thoughts whirling in the wake of her tragic tale. He was struck by what she’d said about the people of Tokyo being like slugs in the dark city and remembered that he’d been no different—his new name was Mogura after all. When he’d thought he was walking clearly lit streets, inhabiting clearly lit rooms, it had all been a graphical fabrication—the light not radiating from the world to his eyes but painted on the world by his eyes and the technological network woven through them. Except perhaps in those rare moments when he’d been under the light of the InfoSun, Amon had existed in shadow and murk his entire life.

  Vertical had been absorbed in the skyline the whole time she spoke, occasionally casting her eyes down into the canyon as the peach-and-milk burned fiery purple and began to fade into the darker blue of evening. Now at last she turned to Amon and looked him up and down carefully, as though trying to read his feelings in the lines of his body.

  “So what I want to say is maybe that was her. Maybe you’ll see her again and maybe you won’t. But there’s no telling how it would turn out if you did. So don’t hurt yourself by obsessing over something uncertain and distant. All we can do is focus on what’s within our reach every day and hope.”

  Vertical put her hand on Amon’s shoulder again and Amon looked into her quivering, sympathetic eyes. A wave of gratitude glowed in his chest for her caring attention and he felt as though he was finally beginning to understand her. Vertical had treated him with disdain from the beginning, always seeming cold and impatient, and though he could tell that she was hurt somehow, he could never guess why. Now he sensed the warm, sensitive pith beneath her prickly exterior and was happy to have earned her respect, wishing the circumstances were not so dire so that they might have more opportunities to communicate like this.

  “Thank you,” said Amon with a slight bow of his head and a wry smile. “I still don’t know how I feel, but I’ll think about what you said.”

  The trenchway continued until a meandering pegway arrived on their right. A misty drizzle on the wind now tickled their faces, and Amon began to toil up ahead of Rick this time, squeezing the slippery handholds hard, his wary eye on the many hundreds climbing above for fear one might lose their footing and come tumbling down.

  To Amon, Vertical’s advice had seemed sincere and he didn’t doubt there was wisdom to it. But in the present situation, it seemed almost impossible t
o follow. For how could he focus on the day-to-day when all he experienced was misery? It was far too tempting, when he had a moment to breathe, to imagine somewhere else—a city where Mayuko was waiting, a simple comfortable apartment, the forest—especially since Mayuko had drawn close, whether as fact or figment.

  After the continuation of Vertical’s story, Amon had reflected back on the autumn festival when she had told the first part, which reminded him of Tamper, whose name story Hippo had told not long after. When he considered how both Vertical and Tamper had tried to reunite with family members in the Free World, it seemed to him that their stories were like the flipsides of one coin and he became more curious than ever about Tamper’s letter. So, two days ago, he had visited the library to ask the Books about it and they had kindly agreed to make the time. Now, clinging to the pegs with the crowd halted above for some reason and the moisture whish-pattering on his head, Amon recalled the tapping of Little Book’s decoding and the nasal thrum of Book’s interpreting while the three of them sat in the center of the stacks, the scrambled characters on the plastic sheets in his hands like a spell summoning Tamper’s soul.

  Dear Xenocyst, Apologies for silence. Had little peace of mind to gather info.

  Writing to amend for misbehavior. Xenocyst kindly fed and sheltered me after I skipped my hearing. An unfair exception to your good rules. So paying my story debt. Hope it’s not too late.

  In my twenties I married a doctor. An obstetrician. Mostly in-house midwifing for wealthy. Very successful in her niche. But she felt inadequate for having no baby. Studied hard her whole life to finish medical school ASAP. Never had time to think about starting a family. Because of her specialization patients would ask if she’d given birth. Had to say no. So they saw her as a girl not woman. Or that’s how she saw it. Maybe she had their trust as doctor but she couldn’t stand their superior looks. Whatever it took she wanted a baby of her own.

  I was vending machine designer. Mostly repair work when maintenance drones couldn’t fix a prob. My income was no joke but I wouldn’t be paying for a kid—not at Fertilex rates. Other hand my wife had large salary and inheritance of derivatives from uncle. So budgeting we might scrape by.

  I was surprised at my excitement. Few electronic engineers could dream the luxury of a child. Started imagining myself as father for first time.

  With no fertility treatment we succeeded at impregnation, pregnancy, birth. A miracle. But our last good fortune.

  When our son was two my wife got cervical cancer. Enrolled her in best oncology ward in Tokyo. Ordered most advanced treatments money could buy. Wanted to cure her fast. But she fought over a year. Medical costs drained her savings. Soon we wouldn’t be able to support our son until ID Birth. She asked advice. I loved her. Recommended she continue treatment. The rest figure out later. But she was never type to trust chance. Spent years in school, worked her way up from internship to steady salary job and benefits. Stable prospects were everything to her. I tried to convince her. Invest in your own life! Thought I succeeded. Misunderstood the doubt in her eyes.

  Night she died in hospital I discovered she’d canceled all treatments months ago. Continued renting out bed to appear looked after while skimping on every other cost. Including medicine. Chose not to waste our last days together arguing. Left me with just enough to care for son until twenty.

  The stupid irony of life! Wife wanted a child to feel more secure in career. At end she chose child above career and everything else.

  I fell apart. My wife blessed me with opportunity beyond my means to raise a son. In exchange I lost her. Didn’t blame him for it. Loved my little boy as much as her. My grief took other forms.

  My engineer co-workers were all grime nosties, the machine-loving kind. Told me about pachinko parlor in Nakano with vintage pinball machines. From before Free Era, around 1970s. Designed so you could actually play for profit and make living with enough skill. At least back when they came out. With inflation you maybe earn a bit of sake money. On first day I won ten times what I brought. Not just my luck and talent that drew me back again and again. Also the mystery of the machine. More mechanical than electronic. Parts and functions beyond my technical understanding. My friends were congratulating. Said I might make FlexiPedia pachinko hall of fame article one day. Gave me wild fantasies when wife became ill. I could pay off medical bills with winnings.

  Had just enough sense to know this was delusional. Resisted impulse to play in wife’s final months to stay by side. But after she passed I wanted to badly. Had put it off too long. Pachinko the only way I could forget the loss.

  Finances held up till son turned three. Then vintage parlor went out of biz. Me and friends had to frequent newer parlors accessible from home. More expensive. Higher stakes. Rigged in favor of house no matter your skill. But habit wouldn’t let go. My wife, so brilliant, had foreseen my direction. Somehow. Set up inheritance as trust fund. Just enough money disbursed each month for childcare.

  When savings were gone, debt building, I feared myself. Would I withdraw even this for addiction? No! Clicked the fund away to foster parents who would raise my son. Carefully selected from database. Responsible. Infertile but full of affection for children. Profiles seemed ideal match for him. But this was worst gamble of all. On visit I discovered spacious condo. Used fund to buy while sending son to lower-grade school than promised. And they wouldn’t give him his favorite drink Cloud9 Nectar. Only cheap knockoff brand. Swindled! I threatened fosters with legal action, bluff I couldn’t afford. They preempted with lawsuit. Claimed gambling problem made me unsuitable for custody. Over my son! This trick finally woke me from grief. Quit pachinko entirely but too late. Already deep in the red and legal defense fees pushed me into bankruptcy. Cash crashed in the end. Just before my son’s sixth birthday.

  Lucky to find Xenocyst. Wanted to stay longer. Build more for community. But had to find my son. You taught me to seize control of my life even where choice is impossible.

  Now I visit him daily. Bring him Cloud9. See him so close. Want to touch him. But his overlay would label me an obstacle and he would see whatever it made me. Not his father. Then fosters could review his LifeStream. Find me stalking. Keep him from his favorite drink or worse. And I’m ashamed to be seen. What kind of father can I be? A bankdead stealing to stay alive. Already my hack to fake inventory uncovered a few times. Fended off CareBots sent by vending machine owners. One day they will judge cost effective to sic freekeepers I cannot beat. Only a matter of time. I live in fear. Who could drag a child into such life? Better not knowing I’m here. Better to forget his father and mother. But can’t leave him entirely. Want to provide him with best I can offer. His favorite drink and my thoughts of him.

  This in between life is my penance. Hope this letter finds you. Let me pay my story debt at least. Tamper

  By the time their disposcraper was in sight, a fitfully pounding bluster threatened to knock Amon’s tired body off the edge of ladder footholds and pry his fingers from rungs, as the sky slivers above oozed with black clouds and the whole slumscape swayed with slow menacing force. Though it was hardly the time to focus on anything but trying to keep his grip as he scaled wet, ephemeral towers that refused to stay still, Amon couldn’t help thinking that he would soon be alone with Rick in their room, where he might finally tell him about the incident with the woman. He knew that as Mayuko’s ex-lover and old friend Rick deserved to know anything that might hold clues to what had happened to her. But initially he hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up when it might turn out that the incident was a complete fiction, that the woman was someone else, or that she was Mayuko but they had missed their chance to meet her forever, so he’d planned to wait until he’d confirmed the details with the sentinel. Yet even today, after he had learned the sentinel was gone, Amon had said nothing, and in the occasional glimmers of self-honesty that reached his consciousness he saw the deeper reason for his hesitation: neither of them had mentioned Mayuko’s name since the day they had reunit
ed in Xenocyst. Now Amon was afraid that once the topic came up, Rick might question him more directly about the past and Amon would be forced to tell him the parts he had omitted from his story, or perhaps to explicitly lie, neither of which he was prepared to do.

  Amon wasn’t sure why he’d deceived Rick in the beginning. Without any premeditated thought or planning, he had simply found himself trying almost automatically to hide his final moments with Mayuko. At the start, Amon knew he’d been driven in part by his pride: he was ashamed to admit that he’d failed her in the moment of reckoning. Would Rick have understood the split-second calculations that led to Amon’s decision to run alone? Would he accept the fact that the only way for both Amon and Mayuko to stay alive had been for Amon to leave her in grave danger? Now that he’d told the incomplete and thus dishonest version of events in which she had never been attacked, he didn’t see the point in making Rick worry when there was nothing they could do to help her—or at least this was Amon’s best excuse for continuing to seal his lips. There were also simpler, less noble reasons that he could sometimes admit to himself. Like the fact that the longer he remained silent, the more the elision became habitual and the harder it was to even broach the topic.

  If they were going to discuss this sensitive issue that had profound bearing on their friendship after these several months had passed, they would need to find the right moment, when they could go slow and open up, not just exchange breathless words during their exhausting labors. Yet Rick usually excused himself right after work these days, and came back to their room after Amon was asleep or when it was too late for serious discussion, so such chances seemed ever less likely to present themselves. It was sad for Amon that Rick was spending less and less time with him, especially now that he was feeling the lack more and more and could have used an ear to speak his troubles. That was why, after the typhoon had been spotted and Rick agreed to hole up with Amon in their room to ride out the storm together rather than wander off alone, Amon felt a strange tinge of gladness to his foreboding, hoping that he would find the courage to speak at last and make everything clear between them as it had been once long ago.