Work Text:
"And there," Tamao said, one callused finger pointed at a cluster of stars smeared across the ink-black canvas of space, "is the constellation Virgo. Do you recall who she is, Megumi-chan?"
Megumi stared up at Tamao's kindly smile with round eyes. The two of them were seated before one of the satellite's ample portholes, provided a beautiful if not limited view of the expansive abyss beyond the glass. Reluctantly, Megumi shook her head.
"Ah, you shouldn't be so forgetful," Tamao chided, though it was without any real malice. "In any case, Virgo is said to be holding the scales of justice in her hand—do you see? There. Over two thousand years ago, the Romans called her Iustitia, the virtue of righteousness they held so dear."
"Righ… chuhsense?"
"Yes, righteousness." Tamao tapped Megumi's nose playfully, causing her to giggle. "Because everyone wants to be a good person, no?"
Megumi nodded. "But some people aren't so good, right?" she said, eyes still so wide that they could have reflected the full moon, if the two of them had been stargazing from an Earth not yet ruined by the nanomachine infection.
"I suppose not," murmured Tamao.
It was then that a set of familiar footsteps began to echo down the corridor. After a few seconds, Izumi appeared in the doorway. Exhaustion was etched into his features as ever, from the shadows that lingered beneath his eyes to the discontent twist to his mouth, but he managed a smile at the sight of Megumi sitting in Tamao's lap, cheek pressed against the porthole glass.
"Thanks for taking care of her, Professor Kurabe," said Izumi. "I apologize again for taking you away from your work."
Tamao waved dismissively. "Okino-san is more than capable enough on his own. Besides, I was the one who volunteered in the first place."
"Fair enough," Izumi said with an amused dip of his head.
Tamao remembered that day vividly. When Megumi had arrived on the satellite, separated from her father and brought among the fourteen other representatives of mankind, she had had more than a little difficulty falling asleep. Izumi had darted through the hallways in search of someone capable of caring for a small child. Ida, Sekigahara, Gouto, Ogata—well over half of his colleagues were out of the question already, on account of their… unique personalities. Takamiya was an obvious candidate, if she had free time outside of working on the probes; or maybe Kisaragi, if keeping the others from murdering each other could translate into babysitting; or—
"Is everything alright, Izumi-san?"
Tamao had peered out from her room, marveling at the sight before her: a grizzled army major cradling a wailing child in his arms, more frantic trying to calm her down than he ever seemed piloting a fleet of drones with enough firepower to decimate a small country.
"Not quite," Izumi had replied, as little Megumi hammered her fists against his shoulder. "Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Professor, but—relax, would you?—do you have any advice for dealing with this… problem?"
Tamao had laughed. "Allow me," she said, scopping Megumi out of Izumi's arms and setting her down on one of the armchairs in her room. Megumi paused for a brief, hopeful moment, during which Tamao took the opportunity to sing:
"I dreamt that, on a beach swept by sea-blue wind…
The two of us together laughed barefoot…"
Megumi had quieted, listening to Tamao's song—and then, gradually, she began to doze off, her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of slumber. The two adults watched for a few seconds, not daring to even breathe for fear of waking her once more, before at last Izumi let out a sigh of relief.
Since then, it had become a routine. Whenever Megumi was having trouble sleeping—or when she simply needed someone to watch over her—Izumi brought her to Tamao. Tamao would then sing her a song or tell her a story: anything to keep a ten-year old child occupied in the absolute isolation of outer space.
Neither Izumi nor Tamao gave voice to that implicit truth: that Megumi would be ten forever, that the world would end before she ever had the chance to grow up.
"Oji-san!" Megumi chirped, breaking Tamao out of her reminiscence. "Did you know that the stars have names? Like Virgo, or Cassi—Kia—"
"Cassiopeia," Tamao supplied, and Megumi nodded eagerly. "Megumi-chan has been particularly interested in astronomy as of late," she explained to Izumi. "She's grown accustomed to living on a satellite rather quickly."
"Kids adapt fast," agreed Izumi. "Speaking of: did you ever have kids of your own, Professor? You've gotten Megumi to take quite a shine to you, which is why I was curious if you had any experience with 'em."
Tamao shook her head. "I did want children, once upon a time, but I was always so busy with my research that I never had the chance. Megumi-chan is a sweetheart, though," she added. "Reminds me of myself when I was younger."
Izumi chuckled. "You must have been quite the riot, if you were half as chaotic as this scamp," he said, ruffling Megumi's hair.
"I'm not cha… otic! Whatever that means!"
"I agree. She's always well-behaved whenever I watch over her, Izumi-san." Perhaps because of our similarities, Tamao thought, remembering her long-past days of being ten and sticking paint-coated palms to every surface of her parents' apartment.
"Agh, don't encourage her," Izumi muttered. Megumi stuck her tongue out at him. "Anyway, I gotta run, but you take care, Professor."
"Goodbye!" Megumi added, one hand waving cheerfully while the other clung to Izumi's wrist.
Tamao raised her hand in her own farewell, knowing that it would not be the final time she was tasked with caring for Megumi.
It would, however, be one of the last.
Shinonome stood when Tamao entered, brushing off the front of her blouse. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting of her office, she looked even more ghostly than usual, the shadows beneath her eyes stark against the porcelain-paleness of her skin.
"I would say this is unusual, but knowing you, that would be a lie," Shinonome said, mouth quirked in some approximation of a wry smile. "What did you want to talk to me about?"
"Nothing in particular," Tamao said. "However, I have been worried about you, Shinonome-san."
"Oh? And why is that?"
Tamao held her hand out, putting up a finger for each reason: "You weren't at the last meeting; you've looked rather exhausted on the few occasions we've bumped into each other; you—"
"I get it," Shinonome said, tipping her head back with a sharp laugh. "You worry about everything, Kurabe-san. Shall I make you some tea?"
"That would be lovely. And perhaps you are right," Tamao said, watching as her colleague busied herself with making a pot of tea. Shinonome seldom drank it herself, preferring to fabricate all of her beverages for convenience's sake, but she kept a kettle around for Tamao nonetheless. "But you in particular give me cause for concern, what with the aforementioned reasons."
"Ah, I'll get better at keeping up with appearances, then."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." Shinonome turned, the steaming cup of tea in her hands. "Regardless, my personal state of being doesn't matter. We have to get the genetics right for Project Ark, and I'm the only member with the expertise. If I fail to contribute even that, then what's the point in me being here? To be another DNA sample?"
"No. I don't believe people can be categorized like that," Tamao said. "'Useful' or 'not useful.' Even if you are unable to perfect the genetics portion of Project Ark, the experiences you bring to the table are more than valuable enough."
"Yeah, tell the rest of our colleagues that when I doom humanity."
"You won't." Tamao touched the back of Shinonome's hand lightly. "Have more faith in yourself."
Shinonome sighed. "It's easy for you to say that. How do you maintain this level of 'faith' in people, anyway? Especially when your colleagues are—" here, she laughed— "people like us."
Tamao swirled the tea in her cup, observing the ways in which her reflection distorted and returned to normal. The liquid was too dark to make out her own face, but she wondered what expression Shinonome saw. Amusement? Uncertainty? Exhaustion?
"I'm not sure," Tamao admitted. "I suppose I am of the mentality that people are fundamentally good, twisted as they may become through outside influences. There is something precious in every person's existence."
Quiet enough that Tamao nearly thought she had imagined it, Shinonome muttered, "Even Ida?"
"So that's what this is about."
"Of course; when it is not?" Shinonome returned, eyes now alight with something darker than fury. "Always Ida, Ida, Ida, Ida…! "
"Shinonome-san—"
"I thought I was done with him, you know?" Shinonome's fingernails dug into the couch before her, grip strong enough to tear the fake leather apart. "I thought I finally got him out of my life all of those years ago, and here he is, the same asshole he always was. God, I—I guess I'm doomed to be tormented by him to eternity. Shit!"
The two of them stayed like that for what could have been seconds or hours. Shinonome panted through gritted teeth, glazed eyes focused on some vague spot on the pattern carpet; Tamao sat there, hands folded in her lap and frankly rather useless. She knew well the limitations of her presence in Project Ark; though she was respected as a colleague and mentor, she had little say in matters outside of her field. Tamao could offer counsel all she liked, but the others ultimately kept their secrets with ease. Yet, even if she had no right to, she wanted to help.
…To be 'useful,' perhaps.
"I think you need this more than me," Tamao said, taking the cup of tea and pressing it into Shinonome's trembling hands, "though I fear it is rather cold by now."
Shinonome laughed bitterly. "At this point, do I have the right to ask for more?" She lifted the cup to her lips, not bothering to conceal her distaste yet drinking it in its entirety before continuing: "Thank you, Kurabe-san. I apologize for my… unprofessionalism."
Tamao waved away the remark. "You should know by now that I never mind. Speaking from experience, one often feels better after verbalizing their thoughts to another."
"And this is what feeling better is like," Shinonome said skeptically.
"If it is of any comfort, none of us are particularly fond of Ida-san."
"But no one else has the genius it takes to be Sysadmin, so he's a necessary evil. 'Useful,' if you will."
"Though I disagree with your phrasing—"
"It's fine." Shinonome laid her head back against the couch. "Thank you for coming today, Kurabe-san. I'll be sure to attend next week's meeting."
Tamao knew well when she was being dismissed, too—when she had pressed too far, had wanted to dissect someone else's story too hastily. "It was a pleasure speaking with you, Shinonome-san," she said. "Please, do take care of yourself."
Shinonome raised an absent hand in acknowledgement but said no more. Tamao, after a moment's hesitation, rose and excused herself. This was the weakness of being an observer, after all: watching a tragedy play out before her.
"You're not my mom, Tamao-san," said Okino, the lazy grin on his face veiling the mild irritation beneath.
"I am well-aware of that. Still, however, I do wish you would take this more seriously."
"I am being serious!" He leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk. "Super serious. It's just, like… the sim doesn't have to be a whole metaverse as long as it's believable, right? So if we're able to optimize how much time we spend working on it, why shouldn't we?"
Tamao frowned. "Because the continuation of humanity is at stake, Okino-san. We shouldn't put all of our eggs into a video game-shaped basket."
"It was just a suggestion. We'd be reusing Deimos 's infrastructure for U-Con, and then designing the specific behaviors would be up to us. Prototypes Alpha, Beta, and Gamma all work fine. What's the harm?"
Tamao could think of fifty-two ways this could go wrong—not to mention the countless historical examples of man falling victim to its own hubris—but instead she sighed. "I imagine I will be unable to convince you no matter what I say."
"Yep!" Okino agreed. He folded his arms, expression softening into something more placid. "Really, Tamao-san. We're two of mankind's greatest AI experts. We'll get this thing to work out, and then we can ride out the end of the world in peace and quiet."
As brilliant as Okino was, Tamao had learned over the past several months that he could be as stubborn as a mule. It was rare in this day and age, where people could change their personalities and ideals at the drop of a hat, to find someone with such steadfast resolve. There was comfort in that constancy, but… perhaps "stubborn" was not quite the right word to describe Tsukasa Okino. To Tamao, it seemed more like he possessed the resignation of a man who could see the end of the world barreling towards him and knew there was no way of stopping it—the resignation of a man who would smile as the final bullet pierced his heart.
"I understand," Tamao said. She smiled then, with more than a little mischief. "The sooner we finish, the sooner you'll be able to return to Hijiyama-san."
Okino barked out a laugh, his chair tilting back at a precarious angle. "You see right through me, Tamao-san. Not that I was trying to hide it, but still."
Tamao folded her hands before her. "He makes you incredibly happy, Okino-san. From what I know about your past… a brighter future with him, no matter how brief it might be, is worth savoring."
She knew about him only in bits and pieces, for Okino was particularly wary of sharing anything about himself. But from the files Tamao had read, he had grown up in an orphanage: one of those genetically modified babies who looked perfect from the shape of their eyes to the twist of their mouth but had something, something missing—and thus were scrapped. It must have been a cruel upbringing, in hindsight obvious considering his flippant attitude. Ah, and he had had a cat, once—Tamao learned about "Fluffy" during a casual conversation about the complexity of animal thought processes in the simulation—but human attachments disinterested him.
Until he had met Hijiyama.
"Ah," Tamao added quickly, "but forgive me if I have overstepped."
"Nah, it's cool." Okino smoothed out his cardigan. "I'm glad you think so. Most of the others would be like, 'We get it, you're in looove '—and honestly, I can't blame them."
"I find it endearing," Tamao said. "It's the kind of story one would tell their grandchildren…"
Okino paused, a scrutinizing glint in his eyes. If he noticed the way Tamao had trailed off, eyeing the simulation notes floating around them, he had the good grace not to point it out. Instead he tented his hands in front of his mouth and said, "You know, Tamao-san: you're a nice lady. I don't know how the hell you ended up part of this project with the rest of us."
"It's simple. AI expertise was a must for Project Ark, and the others wanted a more formally trained researcher to balance out your presence, brilliant as you are."
"Ouch… is what I'd say, if I didn't already know that. I mean, it's like: if the fate of humanity is being entrusted to people like us, we might as well all be a little messed up, right? Makes for a more entertaining trainwreck that way, if nothing else. But then there's you, literally a saint on Earth, and I'm wondering how that happened."
Tamao smiled somberly. "Do you truly believe that an artificial intelligence expert has never done anything immoral?"
"Touché," Okino said, faltering for the briefest of moments. "We're going to put in a pin in that, actually. But on a serious note: doesn't it ever get tiring, being the quintessential 'good person' among us?"
"Mm… In that case, perhaps it is the fascination that drives me." Tamao folded her hands in her lap. "To have true faith in humanity, I believe one must face in it all of its aspects: both the good and the bad. And, besides… I do enjoy the company."
"Fair enough." Okino broke off in another laugh. "Geez, can't believe I just had this deep of a conversation. You're the only one who can get away with stripping me bare like this, Tamao-san. And Takatoshi, though obviously in a different way—"
"Alright," Tamao interrupted. Okino cackled harder while she cleared her throat. "In any case, if you have anything else you want to talk about, do feel free to come to me, Okino-san."
"I'll keep it in mind," Okino said, in that way that meant thanks, but no thanks. Tamao understood that feeling—being so fearful of one's own story that it seemed better, safer , to let it gather dust in a forgotten attic somewhere.
"Allow us to get started with our project proper, then," Tamao said, turning to the glowing displays that hovered before her. Get started with preserving humanity.
Tamao's grandfather used to tell her stories, way back when—about life during the Pacific War, about the hunger and the horrors and the howling sirens in the middle of the night… and about the quaint little home he had grown up in. He had photographs of that house, and though the images had been reduced to sepia-toned blurs, they fascinated Tamao nonetheless. It all seemed so foreign to her: a wooden one-story house in lieu of a towering apartment complex; a sky unmarred by smog; plants that were not fashioned from plastic but had instead grown on their own.
To listen to Grandfather speak and to hold those time-faded photographs in her hands was to stand in a moment that seemed at once infinite and cut far too short.
Tamao ran her fingers along the wooden pillar, filled with something akin to disbelief. Outside the boughs of the cherry blossoms swayed in the gentle breeze. Honey-gold sunlight trickled through the windows and onto the wooden floorboards. It was quiet, as though the world itself were holding an expectant breath—or perhaps that was merely Tamao, standing as still as a wondering statue.
"Is it alright?" Miura's voice wavered with the faintest hint of nervousness. "I cross-referenced your notes with a few textbooks and historical novels, so I'm hoping it seems accurate to what you imagined."
"It's perfect," Tamao said. "Never in a thousand years could I have dreamed of—of something like this. Goodness, even this dent! Grandfather once told me about how his sister hit her head right here, running a little too quickly inside. You have quite the eye for detail, Miura-san."
"Ah, geez, you're too kind. It was a pleasure working on it, really. I wish I could have lived during a time when things looked like this."
"In the next life, perhaps." Tamao turned to him, ready to scrutinize his reaction to her subsequent statement: "The Sector assignments, correct?"
Miura faltered before scratching his neck awkwardly. "Yeah. My clone'll have a grand old time, won't he?"
"I admit I am still uncertain why you chose Sector 5, Miura-san. I understand Takatoshi-san picked it because he possesses the heart of a soldier, and I because, to be frank, no one else wanted it. But you…"
"...Well, to say things were bad back then is an understatement," Miura said, idly scuffing a socked foot on the wooden floorboards. "Then again, we've also had worse since: entire countries collapsing from drone strikes or information wars or the effects of climate change. I guess I like the idea of going back to when things hadn't gone quite so wrong yet. Seeing technology before it became the mess it has today, so to speak."
"I see," Tamao said. "You certainly have the perspective of an engineer. And does Minami-san have any thoughts on that?"
"Er… She isn't happy about it. Says that she'd rather put her clone in an era with more amenities, like Sector 3 or 4."
"That is understandable as well."
"But Professor Kurabe," Miura continued, "I just feel like—I don't know. At the very least, I just wish she'd consider it a little more, you know?"
"Miura-san, have you ever spoken with Minami-san about the nature of your relationship?"
Miura spluttered, his face turning bright red. "Why—What does that have to do with anything?"
"Recall when you first told me about your entanglement."
It had been during one of their myriad conversations about "the old days": what it had been like for Tamao in the 2060s, when they were on double-digit iterations of the iPhone and nanomachines were hardly a whisper on the wind. In between her stories, Tamao had asked Miura about the young woman who had recently arrived on the satellite, and with all his usual nonchalance he had replied:
"'Just a fling,' was it?" Tamao recounted. "I believe you also said something along the lines of 'she's just another fish in the sea.'"
Miura groaned. "God, don't remind me of that. Things have changed, alright? It's complicated."
"While I am glad you young folk haven't stopped describing your relationship statuses as such, if the two of you aren't seeing eye-to-see, perhaps that is where you ought to begin. Talk to her about how you feel."
"Right as always, Professor Kurabe." Miura muttered. "I'll hit Natsuno up once we're done with—oh god, I haven't finished showing you around the rest of Sector 5. Are you alright with moving on?"
The two of them stepped past the threshold of the door, surrounded by the honey-dappled cherry blossoms and soothing ambience of birdsong. The sunlight was fading now, dusk giving way to night, and the faintest hint of stars dusted the sky above.
Those are real? Tamao had asked her grandfather, all those decades ago. Long before she would be sent into space for Project Ark; long before humanity would meet its end. I thought stars were just something people put in art to make the night look less scary, she had said then.
She turned to Miura once more. "I am."