Remote Control

by Kotaro Isaka

  "You were pretty proud of it at the time," he said.

  "1 was a kid. I didn't know any better. At any rate, thanks to my careful education. I've got a phobia about train mashers—though not for the same reason women have."

  "You do, don't you?" said his mother in her mild way. She had apparently not been following the conversation. "You always had trouble remembering how to write 'pervert.'"

  Masaharu Aoyagi

  Once he had cleared the window above the toilet and picked up his backpack, Aoyagi made his way around the building and out to the sidewalk. It was dark now and the restaurant through the window looked like a scene on a well-lit stage. He could see the men moving among the tables. The short man who seemed to be the leader stood talking with a waitress and the manager. Then he showed them something—a notebook or a photograph perhaps—and the waitress was gesticulating.

  Aoyagi slung his pack over his shoulder and pulled out his cell phone to check that the power was off. Was that how they'd found him? He started walking, but just as he did so there was a deafening crash behind him. Spinning around, he could see that the plate glass window at the front of the restaurant had shattered and the customers stood wide-eved at their tables, as though frozen in the act of getting up to leave.

  The man with earphones was crouching in the pool of glass, brandishing the gun—and for some reason Aoyagi fourid the scene almost funny, it was so incongruous: an all-night restaurant, broken glass, a gun ... all in Japan?

  THE INCIDENT

  It was as though reality itself had shattered with the glass. Someone started screaming in the restaurant.

  He took a step, but his knees buckled under him and he crumpled to the pavement. Almost at once, he was scrambling to his feet again, urging himself along. But only his head seemed to be racing; his feet refused to obey and he stumbled awkwardly down the sidewalk. Trucks were whizzing past him. On the side of one of them, in a flash of headlights, he recognized a whale, the trademark of one of the rival delivery companies. The prime minister had been killed, but the trucks were still running. He felt a pang of sympathy for the drivers who'd be coping with traffic jams and roadblocks all over the city.

  He remembered how the drivers used to say that the country couldn't function without them. Everyone was talking about the Internet, but the Internet moved information, not real things. For that, you needed trucks and drivers. And if that was the case, shouldn't they be treated a little better? They certainly thought so themselves, if almost no one else did. Two years earlier, though, when the TV had been making such a fuss over his encounter with the burglar, some guy on one of the shows had reminded the viewers, who tended to see truck drivers as road-hogging bastards, that they were, in fact, the backbone of the country's commerce. There'd been a lot of jokes among his fellow drivers about how he had single-handedly raised their social status, but in actual fact they were genuinely pleased and grateful. Would those same drivers be furious with him now for sending their social capital plunging?

  He turned into a bigger street and slowed his pace. The sidewalk was nearly deserted and the streetlights seemed to glare down at him; it would be too conspicuous to keep running.

  He thought of Kazu—someone else to worry about. Would he show up at that restaurant once he'd patched things up with his girlfriend? And if he did, would he run into those men? Their conversation on the phone ii bit earlier ran through his head. There had been something strange about his voice, something troubled. Aoyagi sto|)|)ed short. He |)ulle(.l out his phone and stared at it again, (.oukl it be? (a)uld Ka/.ii have ti|)ped them oil iiiul not the signal itself? He looked u|) and glancetl around. A young touple |)assed by, and from the o|)|)osite direction he saw three rowdy kids in school

  REMOTE CONTROL

  uniforms with their hair lacquered in strange shapes. As Aoyagi stood looking at them, the boy nearest him turned and met his gaze. He felt exposed, as if the lights in Sendai had gone out, leaving him alone illuminated, like the star of some horror movie.

  What had Morita said?—"Your enemies now may be the people who look least like the bad guys"—just a few hours ago, sitting in his car, with the saddest look on his face Aoyagi had ever seen. "It I go with you, they'll take it out on my wife and my kid."

  The signal at the crosswalk turned green, and Aoyagi hurried to the other side.

  He had been there just once before, several years earlier when his TV was on the blink and he'd wanted to see Japan play in a World Cup match. It had seemed like a long shot, but he'd headed off in the direction of Sendai Station one evening. He had heard about something called an "Internet cafe," and he remembered the other drivers saying they sometimes watched TV online, but he had no idea how to do it and had gone in with low expectations. In the end, though, he'd liked it a lot better than he imagined.

  The place was down a flight of steps from the street. A door slid open, and there was a line of booths, each equipped with a computer screen. He remembered his friends had said the place had few rules, that there was no need to become a member or even show any ID. Nor had they installed security cameras the way so many other places had. He sat down in a booth, logged on, and began scanning news sites. He was afraid that his name would be everywhere, with a hi-tech "Wanted" poster of his face prominently displayed. But there was no mention of him at all. Nothing. To his surprise, he felt a twinge of disappointment, but mainly a huge sense of relief.

  Morita had said they would turn him into Oswald, but at least as far as the news was concerned, it hadn't happened yet. Maybe he'd blown the whole thing out of proportion. Someone had killed the prime minister, but no one was saying that it was Masaharu Aoyagi. Still, the minute he allowed himself to relax, he was confronted with all the things he's seen and heard in the last few hours: Vlorita's shattered look, Kazu's guilty-sounding voice, the faces of the men chasing him, the dart in his hand, the shopkeeper's blood, the policeman's gun, the window exploding.

  THE INCIDENT

  He felt the side of his face; the bleeding from the cut had just about stopped. But nothing had been blown out of proportion—he knew that now. I'liere was no denying that they were after him. The accusations weren't being made public yet, that was all. But they would be at some point, and when they were, the shit would hit the fan, and he wouldn't be the only one to get dirty. It would affect everyone he knew. He was sure of it—and the knowledge made him feel sick.

  He wasn't very good with a computer. In college, he had written papers on one and searched for cheap drinking spots, but after graduation he didn't have much need for it. Then, when he'd become a media darling for a brief period, the Internet had been flooded with anonymous and largely inaccurate information about him, and in the end he'd decided that the whole trumped-up thing was annoying and more than a little scary.

  Opeiiing a search engine, he tried typing in the name of his old company. The homepage that popped up was a good deal more elaborate than the one he remembered, and even the cartoon beagle on the logo seemed somehow cuter. He felt the tension in his face relax a bit. He remembered there was a rumor that the dog was based on a drawing by the owner's son.

  Moving the cursor to the address line, he added a few characters and hit "return." If he remembered correctly, that should take him to the employees' system page. A log-in box aj)peared, asking for his employee 11) and password. His should have been erased as soon as he quit, but he tried typing them anyway, on the off chance that someone had neglected to u|:)date the system. No such luck: the log-in failed. Searching his memory, he came up with another 11) and entered it in the box. I'hen he typed "IkOVlT^A'lS" for the password. Fraying that these hadn't been changed, he gingerly clicked the mouse.

  One of the managers at the company had been a nott)rious cat-lover. His neckties invariably leatured cats, and his desk was strewn with photographs and figurines ot cats. I his feline attair had ajiiiarently been caused by a bitter divorce that convinced liim that only his cat truly understood him and could be trusted. He took grea
t jiride in announcing tluit his piissword lor the site was "lk( )V1T .A'l S," though they had tried to ex|)lain that there was no point in having a jiassword if you told everyone.

  As Aoyagi stared at the screen, the log-in box vanishc'il and the employees'

  REMOTE CONTROL

  page began to load. "I'm in!" he blurted out, then glanced around nervously. The guy in the next booth was busy with his own virtual life.

  He knew where he wanted to go: the drivers' log. When the page came up, he moved the cursor down the list to a name, clicked again, and then checked the route and schedule.

  Logging out of the employees' portion of the site, he returned to the homepage and clicked on a button labeled "Package Pickup." When the form appeared, he filled in the blanks. After so many years of making pickups, it was the first time he had ever requested one. He made up a name for the "requester's" box, and then chose the address of a building on the route of the driver he had just checked, a building northeast of the station that he'd visited many times himself when he was still working for the company—and one that wasn't too far from the Internet cafe.

  There was another cafe—this one devoted to coffee—on the third floor of the building. Aoyagi managed to remember its name and typed it into the form. The owner must have run the business as a hobby, since he was only there a few days a week; the rest of the time, the cafe was shuttered.

  More blanks to fill in. What did he need picked up? Three large boxes. But then his hand paused. Next to the "Date and Time" box was a warning that pickups had to be scheduled at least a day in advance, and that no same-day service was available. In point of fact, Aoyagi wanted the pickup in an hour, but that was probably out of the question. He remembered that customers had sometimes phoned to ask for express service, but he couldn't risk calling attention to himself. He glanced at the time on the control bar of the computer. It was past six o'clock now; he would have to settle for the next morning. Fifteen hours to go, he thought, sitting back in his chair. Where would he be and what would he be doing fifteen hours from now? He found it hard to imagine. Still, this was better than doing nothing. He hit the button to schedule the pickup.

  When the request finished uploading, he pressed the power button and turned off the computer. The coffee he'd brought to the booth was cold. He downed it and then went to the counter to pay. A moment later he was back on the street.

  He walked north, choosing a direction at random. It seemed best to head away from the station. He tensed up whenever he passed people on the side-

  THE INCIDENT

  walk, and soon realized he might have been better off staying in the dark computer booth.

  After wandering aimlessly for some time, he was stopped at a crosswalk waiting for the signal to change when he caught sight of a pay phone. It looked oddly out of place at the end of a line of vending machines by the door of an optician's shop, orphaned in only a few years by the cell phone craze. As he was waiting there, it occurred to him that he might have messages on his answering service. He knew now that it was too dangerous to use his phone, but it should be safe enough to check his messages from a public landline.

  Taking some coins out of his pocket, he fed them into the phone. Then he found his address book, checked the number of the message service, and dialed. When the call connected, he punched in his password and a friendly, robotic voice told him he had one new message. He pressed the receiver tighter to his ear to shut out the noise of the traffic behind him and punched the number to retrieve the message.

  "It's me, Kazu. Are you okay? 1 know you said the battery was dying on your phone, but Tm worried." He sounded hesitant, like a kid unable to make himself clear. "If you get this message, when you get this, please get out of that restaurant. Tm going myself now. . . . You know, 1 don't believe you did it. You could never have done something like that. But the police showed up here and 1 was scared." Aoyagi's hand closed tighter around the receiver. " They called me before you got in touch the first time. Tm really spooked, so if you get this, get out of there right away." Scowling at the phone, Ao-yagi took a few long breaths. T he warning had come late. He had taken this advice long ago.

  T he voice trailed off and Aoyagi thought the message had ended, but then Kazu S{)oke up again, sounding even more tense. “Whnt? Wlint are yon iloiny here?" Aoyagi could hear anger in his voice, and fear. "How il'nl yon yet in? Whnt ito yon want?"

  The message ended abruj)tly, and the bright, metallic voice came on to announce the date and time it had been recortled. Just tilteen minutes ago. Ifijw could he find out what had hap|)enetl? Someone hatl forced his way into tile apartment. He thought he could guess who.

  (.ars rustled by, and the noise seemed so tlireateiiing that he ciouclu'd down as if to protect himself. Something i.itlled in his backpack the energy

  REMOTE CONTROL

  bars were probably broken in pieces by now, but he had a feeling something much more important might be broken soon.

  Masaharu Aoyagi

  He decided to call Kazu's cell phone. There was some danger they could find him, even calling from a pay phone, but the fear in the voice on the message reverberated in his head like the echo of a taiko drum.

  To retrieve the number, he had to turn on his own phone, and as he pressed the button he had the feeling that the invisible radio waves were broadcasting his location throughout the city, that everyone in Sendai now knew where he was and was coming to get him. His heart pounding in his chest, he checked the call record, found the number, and punched it into the pay phone.

  ''Hello," said Kazu's voice.

  "Kazu?" he blurted out, almost yelling into the phone.

  "Aoyagi?"

  "Are you okay?" There was a rustling noise and then another voice came on.

  "Masaharu Aoyagi?" The tone was harsh.

  "Who is this?"

  "Security Bureau, General Intelligence, Central Police Force," the voice said, quick and low. It occurred to Aoyagi that this was a job, not a name, but the man on the phone apparently had no intention of identifying himself further. "We know you did this. You can't get away, so you'd better think about your options. It'll go easier if you give yourself up."

  "But I didn't do it. I'm innocent." In his wildest imagination, he had never thought he'd be saying these words.

  "That's what they all say," said the voice. His line, too, was like something out of a bad movie.

  Aoyagi shook the receiver in his hand, wanting to yell at it: "I didn't do it! Why can't you understand that?" Then he saw it out of the corner of his eye. At the edge of the sidewalk, in a dump of azaleas: a Security Pod. Tiny red and white lights were flashing on the dome. Was it watching him? He turned his back.

  THE INCIDENT

  "Aoyagi! Get out of there!" He could hear Kazu suddenly yelling in the background. Then a groan.

  "Hey! What's going on?" he shouted into the phone.

  "What do you think?" The voice was calm and even.

  "You can't hurt him!" They were police. They were supposed to serve and protect.

  "And why would we do that?" said the voice. Then Kazu screamed, and the pain in his voice was like nothing Aoyagi had ever heard.

  "Kazu!" he called into the phone.

  "You've done a terrible thing," said the voice. "You've assassinated the prime minister and created a national crisis. Thanks to you, we're in a state of emergency, and in a state of emergency bad things can happen to people. It's unavoidable. Do vou know whv?"

  "No, I don't know anything anymore," he stammered.

  "Because we have to keep a bad situation from getting worse."

  "You're out of your mind."

  "I can assure you Tm not," said the man, bristling for the first time, "just look at what America did after 9/11. How many innocent people do you think got hurt when they went after the men who planned the attack?"

  "We're not America," he barked at him.

  "You're right. I'm glad to say we're not. But that doesn't change the fact that you'
ve committed a crime."

  "But what does this have to do with Kazu? If you want me, come and get me. But leave him alone."

  "If you're worried about your friend, there's a simple way to assure his safety. All you have to do is turn yourself in at the nearest police station—or come find us here at this apartment. As soon as we have you in custotly, Mr. Ono can resume his normal activities."

  "You won't get anything by hurting him."

  "On the ccjntrary. I'm counting on getting you."

  A low tone sounded and Aoyagi realized he was almost out ot time on the call. He was about to feed another coin into the phone, when it occ urred to him they might have already traced the call. "I didn't do it!" he said once more into the phone, louder than before.

  "Would you say so if you had? Only the guilty dc*ny their crimes." ‘The

  REMOTE CONTROL

  voice was as calm as ever, the tone categorical, almost patronizing. Aoyagi could feel himself getting furious.

  "Okay, then I did do it," he said, switching tactics. There was a pause at the other end. "If 1 confess, does that mean I didn't do it?"

  "1 don't think you've fully grasped the situation."

  "What happened to Morita?" he wanted to know, trying to find a way past the icy tone.

  "Morita?" said the voice, hesitating for a moment. "Oh, you mean your other friend? The one you killed?"

  "Killed? What are you talking about?"

  "You planted a bomb in his car, didn't you?"

  For a moment, Aoyagi was too shocked to speak. He could still hear the blast that had gone off just as he'd jumped into the taxi that afternoon. His mind went blank. His friend's name floated slowly up to fill the void.

  "So what happens now? . . . ," the voice started to say, and the call ended. Aoyagi stood holding the receiver.