NightSide Ch. 02

NightSide: Chapter 2
Asynchronous Mud

+++++

Kenji Watanabe sat in the taxi next to MaryJane, trying his best not to stare at the girl's legs – and soon finding this next to impossible he turned and looked at San Francisco Bay and SFO, the international airport now just off the 101. He watched as a JAL 797 flared over the water and settled gently onto the runway, reverse thrust kicking up a small cyclone of dust and tire smoke – before all that sound carried across the water and washed over the orange Tesla. He shook his head, did his best to hide his revulsion of any and everything to do with aviation, and so of course found himself looking at MaryJane's crossed legs – again.

He had picked her up just the day before, at Richardson Autonetics' Palo Alto facility, and he was, he thought, almost proud of her. She was, according to Richardson, "our first unit certified for export;" she would be the very first of her kind in Japan – and she was his, all his and his alone. He would not disassemble her, would never reverse engineer her...no, after last night he was simply going to hold her close – cherish her and never let go. He had never experienced a night such as that before; he had never felt so in love, or loved.

She was more human than human, Ralph Richardson told him in that meeting. Incredibly sensitive – both physically and emotionally – Richardson said, yet unlike human females not prone to variations in mood, or desire – if that's truly what Watanabe felt most comfortable with. This flexibility, Richardson patiently explained, was but one of the many behavioral parameters that could be customized – even after delivery – should the need arise. Watanabe had been skeptical then – but not now.

And after last night, Watanabe was one hundred percent certain that nothing about this remarkable being needed any sort of customization, at all – if only because she was utterly perfect in every way, and in every sense of the word. No...she was beyond perfect. She was as docile and empathically understanding one moment as the most accomplished courtesan of old, and yet the next she was a hellion – and least when the lights were out and her clothes off. Though it had been years since he had been with a woman, she had coaxed whatever lingering shyness remained from his bruised psyche and carried him over the ultimate threshold, back to the headiest days of his youth.

Now he turned and looked her in the eye – and as she turned and looked into his waves of unbelievable peace washed over his soul. 'This can't be happening to me,' he told himself once again – for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes. 'She's simply not possible...'

And yet she was. Here was the proof of that assertion – right by his side.

Her hair was purest black, her skin so white she almost looked ready to perform a kabuki set, yet it was her eyes that most enthralled him. Black one moment, then in the next a cobalt so deep it was almost possible to feel the mystery of existence – like an azure sea, he thought, at twilight. When she walked or stretched in just a certain way, even the shapes of her arms and legs varied – as individual bundles of 'muscle' reacted to new directions of movement. He had danced with her at dinner and not noticed even the slightest imbalance or hesitation; in fact he found her lightness of movement beyond graceful. And then at one point he had felt light-headed and had begun to lose his balance, and she had felt his unsteadiness and reached out to him, helped him to their table. Once there she had taken his wrist in her fingers while she watched his face, then reached into her clutch and produced the correct medication for the moment! He had looked at the competence in her eyes and smiled at a sudden passing thought...

"What is it, Kenji?" he remembered her asking. "Why are you laughing?"

"I was just thinking. If perhaps I suddenly needed open heart surgery, no doubt you would pull all the necessary equipment from that magic bag of yours and – presto! You'd be there, wouldn't you?"

Her smile changed just the slightest, and he'd felt oddly reassured by the expression she wore in that moment.

"I will always be there for you, Kenji-sama. If it is in my power, I will do whatever is necessary to protect you. Even from yourself."

And in that moment, inside the first time that particular feeling swept over him, he knew there was something utterly different about this being. She was sentient, yet she wasn't exactly human, but neither was she some heartless artificial construct – as he had first been led to believe by his most vocal opponents at home. Sex robots had been on the scene at home for almost two decades, though none had ever caused an uproar. That might change now, Watanabe told himself, and perhaps that was because of that one little phrase Richardson had uttered at their introduction – that "more human than human" quip. And yet oddly enough, it was women's groups who seemed most militantly opposed to the very idea of such a creation.

'Yes, how very strange,' Watanabe said to himself. Human, yet not human. Biological in a way, yet not. A robot? Perhaps, in the strictest definition of the word, but his company had been making robots for fifty years and this 'MaryJane' was anything but. His robots helped manufacture cars and produce medical equipment to impossibly fine tolerances, yet his designers had never once considered something so radical as this. True enough, yet this 'machine' was about to sit beside him on a flight across the Pacific...something none of his products would – or could ever do.

But no...he had her export documentation in his briefcase, and members of the consulate's commercial section would be at the airport, along with representatives from US Customs – and Richardson Autonetics – to see that his departure was trouble free. She would travel in his suite, not in the cargo hold, but that was more for his comfort than hers. He simply disliked flying alone, almost as much as he hated flying with a companion, and as he looked at the airport an involuntary shudder passed through his body once again.

+++++

He marveled at her touch once again, the feel of her hand in his. Warm, the warmth of flesh on flesh, the pressure her hand exerted on his reassuring. He sat looking out the curved window ahead, looking through the leading edge of the vast wing at the main hull of the new Boeing StratoCruiser – the first of a new generation of hyper-efficient flying wing designs – and he only hoped this design was safer than the last aircraft he had flown on.

That had been 15 years ago, on a huge Airbus flying nonstop from London to Tokyo. Descending over South Korea, the number one engine had simply exploded when, apparently, corroded fan blades in the inner compressor failed. The wing a perforated mess, the pilot had tried an emergency descent for Incheon International, but less than a half mile from the threshold of runway 15 Right a vast fire broke out and the Airbus cartwheeled into the sea. There had been fewer than fifty survivors from the almost four hundred onboard, and family and friends told him how lucky he had been. How lucky to have survived.

Indeed...how very lucky.

The first time he'd seen the results of his luck his soul had filled with such despair he'd very nearly killed himself. The left side of his face was a field of molten lava – an angry red flow of indignant malice that begged no further explanation when he saw 'those looks' in women's eyes, but that had hardly been the worst of it. His left shoulder was titanium, the femurs of both legs as well. There had been two metal plates in his skull, but those, mercifully, had been replaced with ceramic moldings a year after the accident. He had fewer headaches the next few years, anyway.

In the beginning he resorted to escorts and call girls, and the best of them ignored his looks – for a few minutes, anyway – but in the end he couldn't meet the revulsion in their eyes with anything approaching dignity. So, he'd been unwilling to meet disappointment head-on time after time, and he turned away from human companionship. He disappeared into work, turning a once modestly successful company into a wildly successful multinational venture, and in the process turning further and further from his own humanity. He worked with a small group of known associates and for the first few years rarely left his office. After five years he never left, and had in fact constructed living quarters on the same floor as his office. People on the factory floor had named him 'the Monk' – after his so-called self-enforced celibacy – yet his closest associates knew even this almost reverential term of endearment cut him to the core.

Then he'd been introduced to a man from California, his name Toby Tyler, a man who knew of his predicament, his ongoing isolation, and who after dinner in his office had proposed a radical solution. Toby told him what he needed was a new assistant, an assistant who'd never judge him, who would never turn away in dismay. A friend of this man, a successful Silicon Valley entrepreneur in similar straits, had been the first to employ one of these assistants and was extremely enthusiastic about her.

"Perhaps I could find out more for you?" this Toby had asked.

And Watanabe had wanted to know more, though not in the beginning. At least, not enthusiastically, but by then he'd been given Mark Stuart's number – and not fully understanding why – he'd called the man, not quite knowing what to expect. But it seemed this Stuart had almost been expecting his call, and had been more than willing to talk about his experience with his new 'assistant...'

"Look, there's really no way to describe this rationally," Stuart said near the end of their conversation. "You need to meet Eve, so why don't you fly over this weekend? As it happens, my jet will be passing through on Friday, refueling at Haneda. You're welcome to come anytime, of course, but you'd have the aircraft to yourself..."

With such an irresistible invitation, Watanabe had agreed to come. He'd enjoyed the luxurious accommodation, the splendid isolation of a cabin designed to hold twenty all to himself, and Stuart's driver met him at SFO and took him directly to a large house in the hills above of Palo Alto, a rambling affair out among the evergreen hillsides off Skyline Drive. He'd been shown to a small cottage below the main house, a Mission Style bungalow of cedar and stone nestled deep in a clinging grove of eucalyptus and oak. His only bag had been carried in for him, and the driver told him to expect dinner in a few hours, and someone from the main house would come down for him.

He had napped for an hour, then showered and changed clothes, wondering once again why he'd agreed to this.

Then, a knock on the door.

He saw a man much like himself when he opened the door. His face scarred, wounded terribly once, but Watanabe saw something he hadn't expected in the man's eyes. Hope, perhaps? Or was it simple contentedness he saw?

The man held out his left hand, and Watanabe saw the man's right was disfigured, barely useable. He held out his own battered left hand and bowed slightly.

"Mark Stuart," the other man said, returning the bow.

"Kenji Watanabe. I am so pleased to meet you."

"What say we head on up to the house. Sorry, but there are going to be a few people here tonight, politicians and other like-minded whores, if you know what I mean, and a few Hollywood types to liven things up a bit."

"Ah, well perhaps I should excuse myself then. I am tired, and do not feel much like a party tonight?"

"As you wish, but I have to tell you, I think you'll regret that decision."

There was something in the way Stuart said those last few words...some infinitesimally small warning in the man's tone that let him know he was being judged from afar. He decided to put aside his discomfort and continued walking up to the main house.

Which was, as far as he could tell, a most faithful replica of Greene & Greene's Gamble House, right down to the arboreal front entry. He walked inside with Stuart and his eyes lit up as he took in forests of honeyed oak, all glowing in verdigris lamplight. And then he saw several Hollywood types, unimaginable beauty dressed in shades of preening vanity, men and women so astonishingly gorgeous he found the scene grotesquely amusing. And two senators, two men whose corrupt nature would normally be a given, if he hadn't known them personally to be noble men dedicated to government service. One of the men, the senator from California, saw him and waved, then came over to he and Stuart...

"Kenji! What the devil are you doing here?"

"He's come," Stuart interrupted, "to spend some time here with me this weekend. We were going to take a ride in the morning, if you have the time...?"

"Hell, Mark, I'll make time. I had no idea you two knew each other..."

And just then a starlet of some repute walked over; she'd just been nominated for an Academy Award for her performance in a remake of The Way We Were and Watanabe regarded her warily, afraid of her reaction to his disfigurement.

"Mark? I didn't know you ran with Republicans," she said in a chiding tone as she walked up. "What the devil's going on here, Mark?"

"Oh, Samantha, you know me...I'll let anyone come to these little parties..." Stuart said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, just in from Tokyo. Kenji, this is Sam Sinfield. I don't think you two have met..."

"A sincere honor," Watanabe said, bowing deeply as he held out his hand. 'She took it! And not the slightest look of revulsion in her eyes...!'

"Kenji! Isn't that the cutest name!" she gushed in a deepest Carolina accent, keeping his hand firmly wrapped in hers. "Kenji? Why don't you come with me – buy me a drink or two, maybe?" She pulled him away from Stuart and they walked over to a bar set up off the kitchen. "What'll it be, Kenji?" she asked as she ordered some kind of Mojito.

"The same, please," he said, bowing his head indifferently.

When the bartender finished, the two of them walked out onto a vast brick and stone patio just off the living room, and Watanabe almost hissed as, startled, he took in the view of the bay spread out below. The sun was setting and he saw city lights just winking on, yet he felt the autumn air was still warm, though a fine breeze was drifting through the forests surrounding the vast house – giving the whole scene more than a little 'Hollywood' feel. He took a sip of his drink, noted fresh mint and berries of some sort mashed in the bottom of the glass, and he nodded his head in approval.

"It's just yummi out here, don't you think, Kenj..." the woman sighed intimately. "Like the night is full of magic, alive with infinite possibilities...ya no?"

He heard the woman but was too wrapped up in the even-glow to consider her words carefully, at least at first, but then he stopped himself from falling further under her spell. 'I am being manipulated,' he told himself. 'Why else would this woman be here with me? Speaking to me in such familiar terms?'

"Yes," he replied, "just so. But I always considered the infinite resides in the night."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"How else could the way be lit?"

She sighed, nodded her head. "So, why'd Mark invite you tonight?"

"I'm not sure. We talked earlier in the week, about a business proposal of sorts, and he invited me to meet someone."

"Someone?"

"An assistant. Eve is, I think, her name."

"Oh. Her," she said, a falling note of despair in her voice.

"You do not sound very happy about that. May I ask why?"

"Sure, but it's no secret. Ever since she came into his life he's been different. I would have said it was love at one point, but it's much deeper than that now, I think. She's become like an extension of his soul, and he rarely goes anywhere without her these days. Mark used to be very shy, almost introverted, but now I'd say he's almost the exact opposite. Very secure, very sure of himself, I think I'd have to say..."

"And why is that such a bad thing?" Kenji asked, but immediately he regretted asking the question, for he could see the answer in the woman's eyes. She had loved him once, though he suspected in the superficial way an actress might love a wealthy man, and she had been unable to elicit such a response from Stuart. "I mean," he said quickly, trying to seize the direction he wanted this conversation to go, "have you talked to her? Do you think she feels the same way towards Mr Stuart?"

"You know, I have. Once, at lunch, on Mark's boat, we talked a bit – about men, I think – and she professed to know little about them, only what she knew about men through her understanding of Mark. It's funny, I think, but I felt she can see no past beyond what he's given her." She paused, took a sip from her glass and shook her head. "All I can say is that she seems completely devoted to him. And I mean completely."

"Devoted, you say. What about love? Do you think she loves him?"

"Kenji...what is this? Are you pumping me for information?"

Watanabe felt red-faced and flushed, sweating fire when she asked him that, and though he stammered an apology he felt angry with himself for such an obtuse show of emotion. "No, I'm sorry if it seems that way. It's just that I've heard so much – yet very little – about her. I was merely curious. So, did you love him so?"

The ball in the other court now, he watched her reaction to this parry – yet he was disappointed again.

"You know, at one time or another everyone falls in love with him. First you fall for his generosity, then you see something under it all...something like a force of nature. A more powerful intellect you'll never meet, but he's at heart a gentle soul. He really wants to accomplish good in this life, yet he's not so sure of himself that he really knows what 'good' is. Does that make any sense at all?"

Watanabe nodded his head. "Yes, very much. History has been a long parade of men who were certain of their knowledge, and the tides of time are littered with dubious results."

"Exactly. Mark questions everything, but most of all he questions his own preconceptions. Anyway, I think everyone who knows him understands that. And I think that's why everyone falls in love with him."

"Everyone?"

"Oh, you know what I mean. It's that thing that draws people. They used to call it charisma, but I never thought of it as something so banal. People loved JFK, half the country cried their eyes out for a week after his death...and I'm just as sorry as I can be, but that ain't charisma. That's love."

"Ah, I see what you mean. You are saying that people almost, well, they almost venerate Mr Stuart?"

"Oh, not quite that...Oh, look! There she is..." Sinfield said, trying not to point.

"Who?" Kenji asked, following her gaze, but he didn't need any further cues. No, he could tell, just by looking at Stuart's eyes.

He was looking at a fairly good looking woman, taller than himself but about the same height as Stuart. Reddish brown hair, flawless skin, much whiter than Stuart's, and she was dressed simply, yet quite elegantly – like she had consciously dressed so as not to upstage any of his guests that evening. And yes, there was something almost serene about the man's eyes now that she was with him – like he was suddenly complete, whole again, despite his obvious injuries.

'So much like me,' Watanabe thought, and suddenly he wondered if that was important.

"Come on, Kenji, it's time you met her, don't you think?"

"Yes, perhaps so," he said, taking the actress' hand, yet now, suddenly, he felt quite nervous again about this whole evening. About the idea of a meeting with Stuart – and about acquiring an 'assistant' – whatever that might mean, but soon they were back in the living room, standing by the man...and this assistant of his.