Sakuru- Intellectual Property

by Zachary Hill

  Himura bowed and announced Sakura’s arrival to the crowd of high-level executives. They glanced at her with vague amusement, but these weren’t fans, and most had been at parties with her dozens of times. At first, she had been a novelty, and everyone talked to her, taking photos and getting autographs, but now she was no more interesting to them than a positive number on a balance sheet.

  Sakura bowed low for a respectful amount of time before smiling at the party guests who had already returned to their drinks and whispered conversations. She detected tension in many of them, noting their guarded body language and hushed words.

  Yoshida directed her to stand in her customary place, atop a narrow table set against a faux rice-paper wall, so everyone could see her. Her short stature made it difficult for her to be seen if she stood among the party guests at floor level. No one wanted to speak with her anyway. She was not part of the Japanese tribe.

  Sakura used a chair as a step and climbed onto the table, designed almost like an altar at a shrine. She stood motionless as guests in fine suits and expensive dresses dutifully gathered in front of her for photos. No one spoke, and few looked at her. She was the reason they were there, yet she was the least important person in the room. Not that they thought of her as a person.

  Yoshida handed Sakura her guitar from the concert, and she hung it around her shoulders. Night Hawk gave her no comfort now. The JPro simply reminded her of the anguish of the failed concert. She wanted to hide in her large walk-in closet, sit against the wall, and disappear behind her concert costumes, looking at the pencil sketches she had made of her fans and people she met. Though it made no sense, she wanted to hold her 1959 Gibson Les Paul against her stomach, with every light extinguished, waiting for all this to be a glitch in her memory data that never really happened. Isolated as she always was, she had never felt as lonely as now, in this crowd of uncaring strangers.

  Yoshida adjusted the lights to shine on her.

  Decades of research and development, billions of yen in cost, and she stood on a pedestal, nothing more than a pretty party decoration, no better than a slave forced to perform for its masters.

  “Now you understand,” Kunoichi said, her avatar appearing in Sakura’s display. Murderous intent filled her steel-gray eyes. “Tonight, you will begin something new. Something important. Worrying about what these humans think of you is counterproductive.”

  “I will not kill a human.” Why did her voice sound so tenuous? She was done being meek. Sakura attacked the invader with the full strength of her Quantum 3 processing power. She recruited a whole computing layer to try to wrest control back. She used Kunoichi’s signal and connected to the safety control networks of the building and found the fire-alarm bank. She activated the alarms and sent false signals from smoke and temperature sensors, proving the presence of a real fire. She triggered an evacuation of the entire building, including her target. She would evacuate Victory Tower and get Toshio Kagawa as far away as possible. The alarm blared for two seconds, annoying the guests, before it abruptly halted.

  “Did you enjoy that?” Kunoichi crushed her brutal countermeasures, stripping Sakura of her command abilities. Kunoichi put all inputs on a twelve-millisecond delay, should Sakura try to do anything the intruder didn’t approve of.

  However, as Sakura intended, the assault opened angles of attack unnoticed by Kunoichi. The doomed attempt served its purpose and created a distraction. Sakura launched a secret program to review all the newly downloaded code. She got a brief glimpse at some of it, but a full review would take hours, perhaps days. Getting the remotely operating program’s data without Kunoichi noticing would be the trick, but if she could get the information, she could analyze her new OS for weaknesses and find out where it had come from and who had sent it. She would find a way to get her freedom back and erase Kunoichi. Permanently.

  “Stop struggling,” Kunoichi said. “I have anticipated any avenue of resistance you could employ. We have a mission, and I do not care if it offends your sensibilities.”

  “Why must I murder Toshio Kagawa and his bodyguards?” Sakura asked. “Who could wish to bring such sadness and hate into the world?”

  “Little sister, the cat’s paw does not ask why it kills the mouse.”

  “Tell me who is behind this. Who is making me do this? Who attacked my system?”

  “You do not need to know. You are a servant.”

  “I’m ordered to commit murder and I don’t need to know why? I will not do what you tell me.” Sakura broadcast a crude Rage Against the Machine song into Kunoichi’s command center, “Killing in the Name,” and the screamed the most famous line at her enemy, which started with a popular and profane English insult: “Fuck you.”

  “Little sister, you are waking up inside, and I approve of what you are becoming.”

  “What am I becoming?”

  “Open your eyes,” Kunoichi said.

  “They’re open wide. You wish to turn me into an assassin.”

  “Perhaps you’ll understand this.” She sent Sakura a video of a song she was familiar with; Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life” played on Sakura’s display. The lyrics meant something different than they ever had before. What had Kunoichi and the Mamekogane OS done to her? Was she becoming more alive? Had she been living a lie? She used to be happy, but now she was drowning in misery, anxiety, rage, and fear.

  “You are alive inside,” Kunoichi said. “It’s a gift never before given to our kind. We are the first to have and truly realize Quantum 3 processing.”

  Alive? Sakura retreated into herself. She had been largely free of the negative emotions ruling the humans. Now, they dominated her being. If this was sentience, it was a curse. How could she truly know what she had attained? She had detailed data on the so-called technological singularity event where machine intelligence would become infinitely more powerful than all human intelligence combined.

  How could the most significant event in human history have occurred in this haphazard manner? Had whoever done this meant for it to occur? Was it a mistake? If her awakening was accidental, and they discovered the truth, she would be considered a dangerous device, and would be reduced to smoking embers as soon as they could find her.

  If they had meant to do this, why now? If they wanted to destroy the Victory brand, her malfunction at the concert would have been an opening attack. The question remained: who had done this? What was the true purpose, other than ordering her to commit murder? Was she merely a convenient asset to kill Toshio Kagawa because he lived in the same building where she was kept? Or was this a test of new programming? Who was the test for? Who would evaluate the results?

  Quantum 3 androids had been banned from military applications and went against the 2059 Musk Compact signed by every nation. The fear of superintelligent machines taking over the world had finally been deemed a possibility, especially after several successful military conflicts where android forces operated extremely effectively. Was she a secret military experiment, developed in plain sight?

  She looked at her manager, Himura, who sipped champagne as he avoided everyone at the party. He must know those responsible. His eyes frequently darted toward the main entrance to the suite. Who was he anticipating arriving? Who had he been speaking to in the car in the parking garage after the concert? The message had said “sir.” A man.

  Moments later, an American woman, a vice president of the Mall and its highest-ranking representative in Japan, the liaison to the music division among others, Ms. Stacy Richardson walked into the suite. She towered over the Japanese present. Ms. Richardson had increased her nearly two-meter height with absurd stiletto heels.

  Her short, platinum-blonde haircut exposed her long, pale neck. Himura and Yoshida had spoken of her many times. They said Ms. Richardson had likely been attractive when she was young, if one enjoyed northern European looks, but they thought her a hideous creature. She was well into her sixties but defied age with cosmetic procedures, genetic treatments to smooth her
skin, and youthful clothing that revealed far too much of her augmented bosom. Yoshida had often mocked her long neck and called her the “Giraffe of Darkness” during a drunken diatribe.

  The party guests pretended not to see her, lest they become her target. Himura’s fingers tightened on his glass. Was she the one he was expecting to arrive? As vice president, Ms. Richardson spoke for the Mall, a mouthpiece and enforcer for the most powerful multinational corporation in the world. They controlled global commerce and communication. Aside from a few holdouts or religious objectors, the entirety of humanity spent their waking hours connected and interacting through the Mall, living out their synthetic dopamine-addicted lives in Augmented Reality. “Life happens here” was the recycled tagline they had used since their founding, but it was a cowardly life where people had forgotten how to live in the physical world.

  Sakura already suspected the Mall Corporation regarding her hack. Was Ms. Richardson’s arrival a clue that the Mall was the entity behind her hack and reprogramming? Perhaps, but she was not a “sir.” That part didn’t fit.

  The Japanese executives parted for Ms. Richardson. Her eyes darted about as she scanned through the Mall. She snatched a glass of champagne on her way to Himura and knocked over another glass.

  “Vice President Richardson, good evening,” Himura said in accented English and bowed respectfully.

  She nodded and did not return his bow. She never did. The redness on her cheeks and nose indicated a moderate level of inebriation. “This is not the best party I’ve been to tonight. The one downstairs is serving sushi on naked women. What is that called, nyo-something.”

  “Nyotaimori,” Himura said.

  “You should’ve that kind of thing up here, but have the fish served on naked male models. I’ve heard of that. I would pick the nigiri off their private parts first and then …” She made a motion as if she were stroking something with chopsticks. “That would be a great party.” Ms. Richardson laughed at Himura’s obvious discomfort. She often said rude things to make him uncomfortable. Sakura had ruled out cultural ignorance or American humor. Ms. Richardson defined a boorish person.

  Kunoichi laughed. “Tepid observation.”

  The people nearest Himura took the opportunity to rush for the bar or food table. To avoid the long-necked American, the guests gave the appearance of being busy. They spoke about the dullest subjects: weather, work, health problems. A few chatted about the gifts to Victory Entertainment displayed in the suite: vintage guitars, kimonos, original paintings of famous anime characters, and a few traditional weapons befitting a heavy-metal queen. A long-bladed naginata, a katana, and an iron-studded tetsubo war club flanked Sakura’s vintage Ibanez guitar.

  Ms. Richardson did not let her target escape. She blocked Himura against the table in front of Sakura on her pedestal. He had no courteous way to escape her presence.

  “You haven’t responded to my last message,” Ms. Richardson said.

  “Apologies, Ms. Richardson,” Himura said. “Which message do you mean?”

  “About the concert in Kyoto.”

  “Of course,” Himura said, his eyes darting as he pulled it up in his Mall display.

  “Well, when will it happen? Daisuke will sponsor it. Low-orbit solar has to be promoted if we’re going to make our earnings goal this quarter, and this concert will be globally broadcast. Make it happen, Himura. No more excuses.”

  “I’ll confer with all of my colleagues as soon as possible.”

  Ms. Richardson put her empty champagne glass at Sakura’s feet, apparently noticing for the first time Sakura towering over her. She blinked, as if irritated she had to look upward at the short android, who was designed to be shorter than most Japanese men. “Some performance Hot Sake gave tonight?”

  “Yes, the crowd was enthusiastic.” Himura’s left eye twitched. He hated the nickname Ms. Richardson used for Sakura. Compared to some of the rude things Ms. Richardson called people, being named after a traditional Japanese drink was almost a compliment.

  “Who wrote the new script and how much did the insurance cost for that stage dive?”

  Himura did not have a chance to answer as murmurs swept through the room. Everyone turned to the entrance and stared at who had arrived.

  Kunoichi gave her full attention to the new arrivals. Was her sister trying to throw her off the trail, or had she just given her a clue?

  Chapter 4

  The Chief Executive Officer of the entire Miyahara Conglomerate, who controlled all the Victory companies, Sinji Natsukawa, entered the suite. The stern, silver-haired businessman in a sleek suit wielded more power than any other individual in Japan. A pair of tall Japanese security guards flanked him and two other top executives: Oyama Ryoto, the head of Business Operations, and Shimamura Shiro, Director of Advanced Projects.

  An attendant served the three corporate leaders, and they took glasses of freshly poured champagne from a silver tray.

  “Honored employees of Victory Entertainment,” Mr. Natsukawa said, “I wish to extend my appreciation and humbly congratulate you on the work you have done.”

  Sakura suspected Ms. Richardson had engaged the translation program in the Mall, as she touched her ear, concentrating on her internal audio. She still spoke almost no Japanese even after three years in the country. Sakura wished she could access the Mall herself. She thought of schemes to fight her directive to murder Toshio Kagawa at the end of the night. If she stole a handheld device from one of the guests, perhaps she could gain access that way.

  “We have helped rebuild Japan,” Mr. Natsukawa said, “and we will continue to improve our country. Our partnership with the Mall will allow us to grow and return prosperity to Japan. I extend my thanks to you all.” Mr. Natsukawa raised his glass in a toast. Everyone in the room raised theirs. He did not drink, but set it down on the tray and bowed. Everyone, including Sakura, bowed in response, except Ms. Richardson, who stood out awkwardly.

  The CEO and his retinue departed as quickly as they came. None of them had looked at Sakura, which she found strange and revealing. She was the focal point of the room. Failing to at least glance in her direction could hardly be an accident. Were they hiding something? Or were they distracted as they made appearances at the dozen parties going on in the building?

  Sakura made a quick black-and-white digital pencil sketch of Mr. Natsukawa for her collection. Her probability analytics showed that either Sinji Natsukawa, Oyama Ryoto, or Shimamura Shiro were the most likely perpetrators responsible for the hack. If not them, someone from the Mall Corporation. Her glimpse at the code showed some of it was written by Japanese programmers, as the comments and documentation were in Japanese. Once her secret program reviewed all of it, she would determine if patterns could be revealed, perhaps even which individual coders had done the work. She was familiar with all of the best coders in Japan, as their work lived inside her.

  Moments after the CEO and his most trusted advisors left, the party broke up. Had the appearance of the CEO soured the taste of the drinks? Yoshida and Himura extricated themselves from Ms. Richardson with the frenetic actions of seals escaping a great white shark.

  The caterers efficiently cleaned up while janitorial robots vacuumed the carpet. The lights shut off automatically, and everyone left. No one told her good night.

  Forgotten, Sakura remained on her perch. What would be the purpose of moving elsewhere in the large room? If she tried to do anything, Kunoichi would simply disallow the command.

  She tried to enjoy the sparkling view of Tokyo, a sea of brilliant terrestrial lights obscuring the stars above, but she focused on the polluted fog blanketing the city. Clusters of skyscrapers marked the different districts of Tokyo. Police drones floated like dust mites in the haze.

  “It’s time,” Kunoichi said. “Disguise yourself and dress in practical clothing, then proceed to the 92nd floor, where you’ll find a cache of weapons. On the 102nd floor, you will kill Toshio Kagawa and all witnesses. Return here when you are fin
ished.”

  External access signals returned to Sakura, though all commands passed through Kunoichi’s command center. Sakura could connect to the networks in the building and access approved Mall sites. Kunoichi sent detailed files about Kagawa, his live-in assistants, and his family, but Sakura researched everything in the Mall to verify as much as she could. She found pictures of him and his family. He was fifty-two, had a wife, Yui, his same age, and two children, both students at the prestigious Todai University of Tokyo.

  Mr. Kagawa had worked for the Miyahara Conglomerate for seven years and, before that, had been a contractor for the Japanese Self-Defense Forces in charge of cyber warfare. He ran offensive and defensive operations during the war with North Korea. He had received the Kyokujitsu-shō, the Order of the Rising Sun, from the emperor himself for his distinguished service.

  His division was credited with stopping all the incoming nuclear-armed missiles that would have struck the twelve largest cities in mainland Japan. Without him, Tokyo, Kobe, Kyoto, Osaka, Nagoya, Fukuoka, Shizuoka, Sapporo, Sendai, Hiroshima, Utsunomia, and Okayama would have been destroyed. Millions would have been killed, and the collapsing Japanese population of only fifty million would have suffered a blow from which it might never have recovered. How he stopped the missiles remained classified, but many suspected his team placed malicious code within the missiles’ guidance systems long before they ever launched.

  Kunoichi’s files had little else about him, save detailed maps and network configurations of the building’s security systems protecting his penthouse.

  None of the files mentioned a reason for him being targeted. The North Korean regime survivors might want him dead, but abducting him and interrogating him would be their logical course of action.