Realms Unreel (2011)

by Audrey Auden

  “‘Really? Could anyone ever get tired of heaven?’

  “Midori smiled at me. She said,

  “‘Well, I guess it would take a very long time.’

  “That seemed to break the ice, and so we kept talking. She turned out to know a great deal about the history of the temple, and Tomo took advantage of this to keep talking with her, asking question after question.

  “We spent the rest of that day together, and it was evening when at last we said goodbye to Midori and returned home with my mother.

  “I couldn’t imagine why Amaterasu was interested in this story, but she seemed satisfied and said,

  “‘Thank you. I needed to make sure there was no mistake. I am glad you have come.’

  “Then she told me that Tomo had left a manuscript in her care, many years ago, the beginning of an academic text on creation myths in various world religions.”

  “Why would Tomo have been working on a book like that?” Emmie asked, “Didn’t you say he had lost interest in religion?”

  “Yes. Yes, as far as I knew, that was true. But you misunderstand — it wasn’t Tomo’s manuscript. It was Midori’s.

  “You see, Midori and Tomo exchanged contact information, that day we met at the temple. In fact, a few days later, I found him writing her a letter — so old-fashioned, very romantic. I teased him about his crush, but he just ignored me.

  “They kept in touch for years after that, but Tomo was very private about the relationship. When it came time for him to go off to university, Tomo enrolled at the university in Kyoto to study architecture. Midori was a graduate student there at the time, in the department of Indian and Buddhist studies.

  “He and Midori began to spend a lot of time together. I could see that Tomo was in love with her, but unfortunately Midori did not seem to feel the same way about him. She was so wrapped up in her doctoral research. I thought she didn’t realize what was happening.

  “When Midori received a grant to travel to Buddhist monasteries across Asia to gather source material for her dissertation, I was relieved. I thought that Tomo would at last have some distance from her. But Tomo decided to take a leave of absence from the architecture program to travel with her. My parents were devastated, and I was furious at Midori. I confronted her, accusing her of ruining my brother’s life. I expected her to defend herself, but instead she tried to persuade me that Tomo was making the right decision. She said,

  “‘The teachers we will meet on this journey have preserved knowledge accumulated by spiritual masters over centuries. This knowledge is precious, and we will be helping to ensure it survives for centuries more. Tomo is lucky to have the opportunity to do such important work in his life.’

  “I didn’t know what to say to that. Although I still didn’t approve, I kept my mouth shut as my brother prepared to leave.

  “I heard nothing from him for six months after he left, despite trying to contact him repeatedly. I had only the vaguest idea of where he might be. My mother was sick with worry, and from time to time I felt furious at Midori for this.

  “Occasionally, we received a letter from Tomo. He wrote that he was very busy, and that we should not worry about him. He apologized once or twice for being out of touch, saying that the places they were staying were quite remote, without even a telephone.”

  Ayame chuckled at Emmie’s surprised expression.

  “Yes,” she said, “This was 1980. Long before smartcoms, before even mobile phones had become widespread.”

  “But then one day,” Ayame sighed, “Tomo did call. It was the first time we had spoken in almost two years. I was so delighted to hear his voice that at first I didn’t understand that something was wrong. I chattered away, berating him for not calling sooner. He was silent for a long time, and then he said,

  “‘Midori is dead. I’m coming home with her body.’”

  Emmie gasped, as distressed by this turn of events as if they had just occurred.

  “Yes,” Ayame nodded, “I was shocked, as well. Shocked. I didn’t know what to say. Tomo told me when he would return, and then he hung up. A few days later, he was home.

  “There was a funeral for Midori, and Tomo moved back in with my parents. After a few weeks, my parents told me that they were worried about him, that he hardly ever left his room. So I started to come home more frequently from university to spend time with him. Usually I just sat in his room as he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. I asked him questions, trying to talk with him, but he barely spoke.

  “This went on a long time, but I was persistent, very persistent. I was terribly worried about him, but, I’ll admit, I was also very curious to know what had happened during his trip, and how it had all ended. He seemed deaf to my questions most of the time, but gradually he began to open up about the things he and Midori had seen and done during his long absence. One day, he finally answered my question about how Midori had died.

  “He told me they had been in the New Delhi airport, on their way to Tibet after spending time in various monasteries in India. They had just checked in for their flight, and they were walking together toward their gate. It was very crowded in the terminal, and swelteringly hot, as well, because the air conditioning system had broken down. When they reached their gate, Midori said she wanted to go find some bottled water, so Tomo stayed behind at the gate with their luggage. She was gone for a long time, and when their flight started to board, she had still not returned, so Tomo went looking for her.

  “He found her surrounded by a small crowd a few gates away. She was on the floor, unconscious. An American preacher they had met on the bus ride to the airport had called airport security, and he was trying to resuscitate Midori. A few minutes later, emergency workers arrived and took her to an ambulance. Tomo followed them to the hospital, but Midori was pronounced dead on arrival. The doctor who examined her said it was a ruptured brain aneurysm.”

  “How awful,” Emmie said, her eyes glistening, “Poor Tomo!”

  “Yes. Yes, he rarely spoke to me of Midori again after that, and I never could bring myself to ask. I’m not sure Tomo ever truly recovered from the loss.

  “About a year after Midori’s death, Tomo dropped out of university and got a job in a manga shop in Kyoto.”

  Emmie nodded. The story of Tomo’s gradual ascent from lowly store clerk to international alternet sensation was familiar to every aspiring domain designer.

  “And that was how things were, for nearly thirty years. He was — goodness, he must have been over fifty when he decided to go to Silicon Valley. He said the alternet was going to change the world. Amaterasu told me that was when Tomo came to see her, just before he left for California.

  “Tomo knew Midori had always felt indebted to Amaterasu for her philosophical writings and commentary on various Buddhist texts. I suppose that’s why Tomo went to her. Even though his whole life had been given over to manga by that point, I suppose he never stopped feeling responsible for the unfinished manuscript. It was all that was left of Midori’s life’s work.

  “Amaterasu told me that Tomo asked her to keep the manuscript for him, until he found someone to continue the work.”

  Ayame turned to Emmie.

  “What?” said Emmie, “Not me?”

  “Well,” Ayame said thoughtfully, “Well, Tomo seemed to think so.”

  “But I really don’t know anything about writing a book,” Emmie said apologetically, surprised that Tomo would ever have thought her capable of such a thing, “I’ve hardly ever written anything longer than an email. I’ve spent my whole life designing domains.”

  “You might find that more useful,” said Naoto, who had been listening quietly, eyes half-closed, the whole time.

  “What do you mean?” said Emmie, turning to him.

  “Well,” he opened his eyes wider and smiled at her, “Amaterasu once showed me the documents. They are very visual. Many illustrations. Maybe that is why Midori wanted to work with an artist like Tomo. Maybe that is why Tomo left th
e manuscript to you.”

  “Good, good,” said Ayame, nodding at Naoto, “I see why Amaterasu suggested I introduce you two. She thought you might have some ideas about it.”

  “You know Amaterasu?” Emmie asked Naoto.

  “I lived with the monks in Enryaku-ji for some time. Part of my …” Naoto smiled to himself, “youthful wanderings. Amaterasu is a very great teacher, very —”

  “Oh, oh,” Ayame interrupted, holding up her hands, “I almost forgot. Amaterasu said it was very important for me to tell you. She said that the information on the manuscript is very sensitive, that you should only discuss it with someone you trust.”

  “Someone I trust?” said Emmie, puzzled, “What did she mean?”

  “No idea. No idea at all!” said Ayame cheerfully, “But now I’ve told you everything. So here is the manuscript.”

  Ayame reached over to the corner of Naoto’s desk and picked up a carved wooden box about an inch square. She slid open the top of the box with her thumb and held it out for Emmie to see. Inside, the emerald-colored ceramic of a round storage tablet gleamed against the maroon velvet lining of the box. Ayame slipped the box shut again and handed it to Emmie.

  Emmie looked down at it, surprised.

  “All this time I was imagining some big dusty stack of papers.”

  Ayame laughed.

  “Oh! Oh, my dear, my brother wasn’t quite that old.”

  ∞

  Emmie’s hand strayed to her coat pocket several times during the drive back to Augur, but she had no chance to look at the contents of the storage tablet, because her smartcom buzzed as soon as she pulled into the parking lot. It was a text message from Owen that read,

  where are you??

  my car, Emmie wrote quickly, what’s wrong?

  ty called an all-hands meeting that started fifteen minutes ago, and you are conspicuously absent.

  Emmie swore, burst from her car, and set off running toward the office.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Proposition

  Zeke emerged from the conference room with triumph blazing in his eyes. Owen followed, looking more subdued as Emmie carried on at his side in an aggrieved undertone.

  “… and I even gave him a glowing recommendation to Tomo. That’s the only reason he hired the jackass in the first place! And what the hell is Ty thinking, anyway, splitting the creative team into two camps? It makes no sense! It’s counterproductive. Pick one of us or the other and just be done with it! Tomo would never have —”

  As they entered the relative privacy of the projection cylinder maze, Owen turned to her and cut her off.

  “I think we should grab a greyroom and do this in private.”

  Emmie sighed and nodded. It wouldn’t help her or anyone left on her team to see her flipping out like this. She trudged after Owen toward the elevators. The doors opened to reveal Lydia Winner, tapping a gloved hand against her hip, eyes rapidly scanning left to right, clearly immersed in some reading. She blinked and refocused on Emmie and Owen as they stepped into the elevator.

  “What floor?” Lydia asked.

  “Sixth, please,” said Owen.

  The doors closed, and Lydia heaved a sigh.

  “I’m just reading the meeting notes now, Emmie. I thought you should know that you’re not the only person who’s going to get screwed by this. Everyone from creative to development is going to feel the squeeze. I’m looking at these schedules, and I’m going to have to rework everything. The sprints this week are going to suck.”

  “Yeah, but it wouldn’t suck nearly so bad if I weren’t so far behind in concept already,” Emmie said glumly.

  The doors opened on the sixth floor and Emmie and Owen stepped out. Lydia stuck out her arm to hold the door, looked up and down the empty hall, and said,

  “I don’t know what Ty’s thinking, moving up the next review deadline. He’s rigging the game so it’s almost guaranteed that Zeke will step in and save the day with his backup concept. Sure, the guy’s talented. But he would make a lousy Creative Director.”

  “You don’t seriously think Ty’s considering making him Creative Director?” said Owen.

  Lydia glanced at Emmie and said,

  “Who knows? The shareholders have probably been breathing down Ty’s neck since Tomo died, wondering whether we’re dead in the water without him. Appointing a new Creative Director would at least give them some confidence.”

  Emmie sighed. She could use some confidence right now, too.

  “Well,” Lydia said briskly, “Emmie, if there’s anything I can do to help you, anything at all, I hope you’ll let me know. We’re all in this together.”

  “Thanks, Lydia,” said Emmie, anxious for her to leave so she could vent to Owen.

  “Okay,” Lydia stepped back into the elevator, “Well, I’ll let you two get to it.”

  “Come on,” Owen said as soon as the door closed, steering Emmie toward one of the empty greyrooms. He palmed the door, followed her in, and set the lock.

  She turned and looked up at him.

  “Owen, I’m really sorry about all of this. I know your reputation is on the line, too, here.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Do you think that’s what I came here to talk about? Look, I know the deadline change works in Zeke’s favor, but that doesn’t mean we just roll over and let him steal the show.”

  “I saw a bit of his expansion concept today,” said Emmie, “It looks really good, and it sounds like it’s way further along than mine.” No matter how angry she was at Zeke, she prided herself on providing fair design criticism. “Maybe it’s better for the whole team if we just go with it.”

  “Look, Em, I know that would take the pressure off for the next few weeks. But that’s not the point. What if Ty is going to decide who gets the Creative Director position based on the next release? That should be your job, Emmie. Everyone knows Zeke’s a kick-ass designer, but he’s also arrogant and divisive. He’s not a team player. Even if the next release would be easier if we went with his concept now, every release after that would be much harder with him in charge.”

  “Ugh,” Emmie groaned, raking her hands through her hair, “I know, I know. I don’t want him as a boss either. The thought of him sitting in Tomo’s office makes me sick. But I am so stuck, Owen. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something just wrong about the Atlantis we’ve been working on, and I can’t figure out how to fix it. I can’t let it go to development like this.”

  “This is what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Owen, “I think you’re making this unnecessarily hard on yourself. I think you’re holding yourself to some impossible standard, second-guessing everything because you think Tomo would have expected something better. But, Emmie, your concept doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be good enough to release.”

  Emmie crossed her arms, shaking her head.

  “Tomo would never let a subpar release go out.”

  “If Tomo were here, Ty wouldn’t have had to move up the deadline, either. Tomo had the luxury of picking his own deadlines, or throwing them out if he wanted to. You can’t expect to put out the same product Tomo would have without the same resources.”

  “Ugh,” she groaned again, “I hate this.”

  “You know I’m right.”

  “Still hating it.”

  “Look, Emmie. You can’t be perfect, not all the time. Let go a little. The team’s not going to give you crap if this release has some bugs, but I don’t think they’ll ever forgive you if Zeke becomes Creative Director.”

  “Great. So my options are: put out a subpar release, or have everyone hate me and end up with Zeke as a boss.”

  “Sounds pretty simple to me. Go for the subpar release.”

  “Ugh.”

  “You need to relax, Emmie. Why don’t you step back for a bit? We can cut out early this afternoon, get an early start on our dinner date.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m not leaving early, not after that meeting. I
need to go to Temenos and figure out what the hell I’m going to do. When inspiration fails, crowdsource.”

  ∞

  Owen left Emmie alone in the greyroom, and a few minutes later she was bouncing down the ferry gangway toward Athenai, the subdomain that served as port of entry for all new users of Temenos. She had assumed a default avatar popular with new users: a blushing strawberry-blonde wearing a fantasy-genre peasant dress that showed off an ample bosom and shapely arms to full advantage. Had she used her primary avatar in this densely-trafficked area, she would have been mobbed by users eager to take a screen capture with her to show to their friends, or berate her for going corporate after her indie success, or complain about a bug in some obscure part of the domain. Her anonymous avatar would allow her to experience the Athenai subdomain of Temenos as any new user might.

  Emmie had taken to wandering the subdomains of Temenos more and more in the months since Tomo died. Temenos proved a reliable source of both pleasurable escape and raw material for creativity. Here, if only for a few hours, she could forget the world and all the troubles weighing on her.

  A perpetually bustling open-air market filled the half mile of sandy plain separating the ferry loading grounds from the city’s central square. Emmie had chosen a Temenos branch hosted at a data center in New Jersey, so the air was filled with voices speaking primarily English. Emmie meandered through the sea of stalls, browsing for new content. Much of it was predictable variations on the basics most users wanted: clothes, vehicles, communication clients, and navigation mods for every budget; avatar customization and animation services; Temenos visitor guides and news feeds; tickets for every sort of live performance, from the most highbrow to the most unsavory; booths for fortune-tellers and matchmakers; meeting grounds for quest-givers and quest-goers; environment access codes for popular solo and team games.