Jim Baen's Universe

Science Fiction Stories

The Ten Thousand Things

Written by Mark L. Van Name

Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti

Yukio stared at the image of Matsushima Bay in the window that was one wall of his father's office. Whitecaps freckled the nearer water. Pine-covered islands filled the distance, the trees gray in the dying light. The sounds of whistling wind carried off the occasional beep of the heart monitor as it tracked the death passage of his father.

His father had always loved the bay, had led the campaign that restored it to its natural beauty. It and the company, the twin passions of his life, had kept him constantly busy, constantly away. Matsushima Bay was the older brother Yukio had never had and could never match. His father would be buried there, beside the family temple on the far side of now-deserted Oshima Island. Yukio hated Matsushima.

When he realized he had not heard a beep in some time, Yukio released the breath he had been unconsciously holding and turned from the window.

His father lay curled in a fetal position in an open long metal cylinder the soft black of a switched-off video display. Tubes and wires ran from his body to the capsule's lid, which rested on its hinges beside him. Yukio saw the device as a fusion of his father's passion for ancient religion and modern tech, a burial barrel as re-imagined by a circuit designer. His father hated hospitals and had not wished to die in one. He wanted to die in one of the two centers of his world, his office or Oshima Island. When the stroke hit him, the office was closer.

Yukio's mother sat beside the cylinder. She was doubled over, her head in her hands. Yukio thought she was crying and looked away in respect. Dr. Jippensha, the family's long-time physician, leaned over his father. Yukio heard the murmurs of Jippensha's mumbling but understood only "Hisato," his father's name.

Jippensha straightened, turned off the monitor, and bowed deeply. "I am sorry. He is dead."

Yukio suppressed an irrational urge to run to the cylinder, check the reading himself, and find a setting the doctor had missed. Instead, he bent his head slightly in acknowledgment. "The capsule?"

"Yes, it's working. His blood still flows; his brain still gets the oxygen it needs." Jippensha paused. "But I think—"

Yukio was not going to change his mind now. "Thank you, Doctor. I understand and appreciate your feelings. Please close the capsule; then you may go."

Jippensha started to speak once more but caught Yukio's gaze and remained silent.

Yukio's mother looked up. "Yukio—"

Yukio winced at the use of his familiar name in front of Jippensha. "Mother."

He meant it more as a reprimand than a response, but she ignored his tone. "Doctor Jippensha is right. Let your father be. His memories aren't what you need. You need—"

"Mother." He stretched out the word, embarrassed even more.

She walked to him. "Hisato's memories will teach you nothing you cannot learn in other ways." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "Yukio, you can't bring him back, so let him go. Let his spirit proceed on the forty-day journey. There is no need to desecrate his body—"

"Akako!"

She stopped instantly; he had never before used her first name. He had no desire to hurt her, but he was determined to get the knowledge that in life his father had never had time to impart. He stared at his mother, willing her to understand, then noticed the doctor was still there. "Jippensha."

The doctor bowed once more and left.

Yukio's mother turned to leave also, but he touched her shoulder and she hesitated.

"We will finish the first stage of the process in a day, at most two," he said. "When that's done, I will have him cremated, and I'll take his ashes to the temple myself. Will that make you feel better?" It was more than he had wanted to offer; he had no desire to go to Matsushima ever again.

She stared at him for a moment, nodded, and left.

When Yukio heard the door shut, he walked to the desk and sat in the chair that was now his. At thirty, he was the youngest chairman ever of Fujiura Corp. But for the circumstances, perhaps, finally, he would have made his father proud. His father. Yukio rubbed his eyes, slid the keyboard and control panel from beneath the desktop, and turned off the projector and sound system.

Matsushima vanished. The room fell silent. Neon ads and multi-story video displays scorched the walls with the reds, pinks, oranges, and blazing whites of nighttime Tokyo. Yukio piped in the audio feed from outside and held down the volume control. The buzz of street life slammed into the room, bathed him in sounds he understood: cars and people and advertisements surging in a jangled torrent of life that surrounded him, affirmed his living status, and pushed back the death that filled the room. He walked to the window and stretched out his arms, willing the city's life to flow over him, around him, into him. He craved its vitality, wanted that energy to carry him through this next step.

He wiped away a tear, disgusted at his lack of control, sure that even in death his father would be embarrassed by the display. He returned to the desk, shut off the speakers, and muted the window display. His assistant, Masataro, as calm and alert as always, appeared on the desk's screen the moment he opened the intercom.

"Yes, sir."

"Tell the lab team it's time."

"They are waiting outside your office."

Yukio was not sure whether he wanted to punish Masataro for his ghoulishness or praise him for his efficiency.

"Sir, I am sorry. Should I send them in?"

"Thank you, and yes." Yukio did not know what else to say. The only thing to do was to move forward.

Four men quietly entered his office and began wheeling out his father's body. The only one he recognized, Doctor Ishiwa, the project's head, paused at the door.

"Yes," Yukio said.

"I must tell you again," Ishiwa said, "that we do not know how well this procedure will work, or even if it will work at all. We've never fully succeeded in any of the simpler tests, and this is an entire . . . memory set."

Yukio stood for emphasis. "I understand, but we have no other options. You make it work, or we lose my . . . the chairman's memories."

Ishiwa bowed and left.

Yukio examined the list of pending items on his desk's display. The moment called for mourning, but business had to continue. His father would have done the same, would have demanded he keep working. Yukio opened the one item that glowed red. "Masataro, get me Kensu."

"He, too, is waiting," his assistant replied.

Yukio rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to hand it to Kensu; after losing the company's top job to Yukio, the man had not slowed at all. "Send him in."

As Kensu entered, he bowed deeply, then waited for Yukio to speak.

"I must focus on the Board and our investors, as well as on the new RAM technology, and, of course, the memory project," Yukio said. "You must keep pushing on the Vladivostok deal." Yukio watched closely to see if Kensu would react; the man had fought for months against this deal, and Yukio's win of Board approval for it had cost Kensu his shot at the job Yukio now held. Kensu showed nothing, so Yukio continued. "TIOKO needs cash. Make sure they get it from us." Acquiring the Vladivostok-based TIOKO, the Tikho-okeanskoye Morye shipping and services conglomerate, would give Fujiura control of its trade paths east and west, enlarge its service offerings, and ultimately attract new large customers in both the Americas and eastern Europe.

Yukio turned away from Kensu as the man bowed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Continuing to run the business was necessary, but it did not make Yukio happy. He swiveled his chair to face the window and pushed the volume control upward until the amplified sounds of the streets below filled the room, until he was bathing in the rush of life, and then he leaned back and closed his eyes.

****

Late the next afternoon, Masataro led Ishiwa into Yukio's office.

"We have done all we can," Ishiwa said. "The scan and download are complete, so we have captured all the . . . raw data we know how to capture."

"So I may now access his memories?" Yukio asked.

Ishiwa stared at the floor before responding, "Not exactly." He looked up at Yukio. "As I warned, we have never completely succeeded, even in partial scans."

"Your past efforts do not matter now," Yukio said. "What is the state of his memories?"

"We have downloaded from his brain all the information we know how to find. We believe we missed nothing, but we have no way to be sure. The bigger problem is assembling the mass of raw data into memories you can access. Our latest software is working on it, but progress is slow and unpredictable."

"Do you have any complete memories?"

"We may," Ishiwa said, "but we cannot be sure. Our assembly programs have yielded several files that pass the few filters we've been able to construct. Per your instructions, however, the files are in the private storage area we set up. Because no one but you is allowed to access them, we have no way of knowing for sure what the programs have produced." Ishiwa cleared his throat and looked again at the floor. "Perhaps when it is convenient, you could—"

"Of course," Yukio said. "Leave me. I'll check now and let you know."

Yukio pulled out of his bottom right desk drawer the special laptop Ishiwa's team had prepared. A thick fiber cable snaked from its back into a network connection buried under the desk. A second, slightly thinner cable led to a thick pair of VR goggles that sat on the laptop. Yukio opened the laptop and let the retinal scanner verify his identity. He put on the goggles, which for the moment were clear and silent, and opened the first of the three memory files in the directory before him.

The goggles flashed into action, and sound poured from the integrated headphones. He was in his office, the Matsushima display playing on the window. Two men sat across from him: Yukio himself, but younger, and Kensu. Yukio felt strange, outside himself, as if he had split in two. He glanced at the keyboard beneath his—no, his father's—fingers, heard the gentle click of the keys, and then looked at the center of the office window, where a chart of sales projections replaced Matsushima. The chart sloped gently downward in the enterprise services sector, the department Yukio was then running. Yukio flushed with the same shame he had felt at that time, at having to report that a department of his had lost money. His stomach knotted at the memory of the shame, and at the anger he had felt from his father. As his gaze—his father's gaze—shifted to the younger Yukio in front of him, he realized how clearly his younger self had showed those same emotions, and he was even more embarrassed for himself. He shook his head: He could only imagine the shame and anger his father had felt.

Yukio stopped the memory playback. The goggles cleared. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, calming himself. That meeting had convinced him both that he hated his job and that those feelings were irrelevant, because he could not let his father down.

After a few minutes, he tried each of the other two memories available to him. They were useless, jumbles of flashing colors and discordant sounds.

He called Ishiwa. "The first in the list is real. The others are not; delete them."

"Yes, sir," Ishiwa said. "Should we continue to run the assembly programs?"

"Of course," Yukio said. "We will hope they will yield more memories the company can use." He broke the connection before Ishiwa could speak again.

****

When Kensu arrived, Yukio was studying the manufacturing plan for the new RAM module, whose flexed nano-tubes delivered the largest single-module memory capacity ever available—enough capacity, Yukio mused, that one module could hold the entire raw download of his father's mind. The module and the new technology it embodied should vault Fujiura into the lead in that crucial market segment.

Kensu interrupted Yukio's contemplation. "TIOKO refused our offer." The man almost smiled as he told Yukio the news.

"How much did you offer?"

"I started low, of course," Kensu said, "with the share price as of close of business yesterday."

For a second Yukio wanted to hit Kensu, but he forced himself to lean back in his chair and reply calmly, "I thought we agreed on offering a premium."

"Yes," Kensu said, "and we will, but I saw no reason not to try a lower price first and perhaps save us a considerable amount."

Yukio stared across his desk at Kensu until the man looked slightly downward. "The reason, as I believe we discussed, is that we are not the only ones pursuing them, and now we have risked offending their Board. Kensu," he paused until the man looked at him, "though I appreciate your reservations about this deal, I am sure you also appreciate that I have committed to our Board that we will make it happen. If you would rather not work on it . . ."

"I will contact them again," Kensu said, "and make our apologies, as well as a new offer."

"Thank you." Yukio stood and bowed to Kensu, remembering his father's advice to always be most polite after a victory.

Kensu returned the bow and left.

Yukio's phone flashed; his mother. He accepted the call and winced as he saw her slight smile; she had heard the news. Her information sources within the company had always amazed him.

"I'm sorry the procedure did not work," she said, continuing to appear to be anything but sorry.

"On the contrary, mother, it did. I have already reviewed the beginning of one memory, and I am confident our software will assemble more."

"Perhaps I misunderstood," she said, "but—"

Yukio cut her off. "Some of the assembled memory files have proven to be worthless, but we are far from done." He fought to stay quiet, but her happiness at the failed memories was more than he could take. "Aren't you at all sorry about those memories we may lose? They are father's memories, and now they may be gone."

"No," she said. "They were gone when he died, as they should be. His spirit must move on, and so must ours. We have our memories of him; that is enough."

Maybe for you,thought Yukio, but not for me. You knew him for decades, even before Fujiura and Matsushima became his life. I never knew him, not really.

"So you insist on continuing?" she said.

Her question angered him further. "Yes. The software is running non-stop across the largest grid we can spare. I'm sure we'll be able to restore more memories, maybe many, many more. Memories that will be very useful to the company."

"To you, you mean."

Yukio refused to rise to the bait. "Yes, to me, as the head of the company."

His mother sighed and leaned forward until her face completely filled the display. "Let him go, Yukio. I know he gave you less than you wanted, but he's gone, and whatever you have of him now is all you can ever have. I wish you two had been closer, but he was always so busy, so dedicated, so—" she smiled. "—so like you."

I am not like him, Yukio thought. Not at all. I would never have a child I did not want and could not find the time to raise. This job is my duty; it was his love. Yukio shook his head. Not at all like him.

"You will keep your promise?" she asked.

He had almost forgotten she was there. "Yes," he said. "I'll pick up his ashes in the morning and take them to the temple."

"Good. There are only thirty-eight days before the temple ceremony; let his spirit spend those days on Matsushima."

Yukio reached to turn off the phone. "I will, Mother, I will."

****

Yukio had considered driving to the red moon-crossing bridge that linked Oshima Island to the mainland and then walking to the island, but that felt wrong. His father would have taken the boat from Hon-Shiogama across Matsushima Bay, and he was carrying his father's ashes, so in the end Yukio took the boat, too. The sky glowed a clear blue a shade lighter than the water. He kept the boat's engine on full, anxious to be done with it. The hull bounced on the small waves of the bay and jarred his spine. The wind mussed his hair and made his eyes water. His skin was sticky from the salt in the air.

When he reached the small dock at the foot of the temple path, Yukio tied up the boat and removed the urn from the cabin safe. He followed the path that led from the water into the pines.

He reached the first torii gate in less than five minutes. Its cedar cross-piece was rough, worn and pocked by time. He considered going on to the temple himself, but he was in mourning and tradition forbade it. Besides, why risk angering the kami? Though he did not actually believe in those spirits, he also knew there was no point in taking such a risk. He would see the temple at the burial; no need to go there sooner. He put the urn at the gate's base, clapped his hands three times to get the attention of the priests, and bowed deeply twice. Then he sat to wait.

The sun on his face was strong but not hot, its light filling the pines with a soft glow that scattered many shades of a single golden hue. The view provided a strange contrast to the arcing