Read Online Harmony by Project Itoh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Project Itoh
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do anything to yourself with DummyMe installed? Hey, Cian, have you heard about this… Hey, Cian… Say, Cian…
But instead of playing Miach’s doppelgänger, I merely smiled cynically and said, “The real reason they give me a score is because if they didn’t, I’d be labeled a sociopath.”
Cian frowned, not understanding. “So you’re not going home?”
“Probably not.”
Cian stepped in front of me. “Then let’s go get something to eat, at least. There’s this new building near where I live. It looks all bumpy and white from the outside, like it was made out of solid plaster. But when you go inside, you can see out. It’s this new intelligent material, a special light-refracting Styrofoam glass.”
“Sounds pleasant. I’m really not in the mood.”
“We could eat, and then you can come over to my house. It’s only eleven o’clock. How about lunch?”
I had an urge to check with the nonexistent Miach. “Want to go with me and Cian to get some lunch?”
I sighed and told her I’d go with her to lunch. Only lunch. I followed after Cian, getting into the first bean-shaped light yellow train that came sliding down the tracks. My WatchMe linked to my credit account, deducting the appropriate rail fee. I was just realizing how long it had been since I rode the subway in Japan when I looked around at the other passengers and felt a sudden fear grip me.
They were all the same. Everyone.
It hadn’t been so blatantly apparent on the battlefield. Working with an international group meant there were a lot of people from a lot of different places and races around all the time, and more than a few of them were indulging on the sly, like me.
That was definitely not the case here.
For the first time, I realized how bizarre a sight the medically standardized Japanese populace presented. The difference between the couple sitting in the seats nearest to me was no more than the difference between mannequin A and mannequin B. Neither was too fat nor too skinny. Every person on the train conformed to a particular body type. Everyone fit within a healthy target margin. I felt like a stranger in a house of mirrors—a country of mirrors.
How had things come to this? How could everyone be the same when simple genetics told us everyone was different?
The more rigid and narrower the goal, the easier it will be for the weak to achieve.
Miach’s phantom again, whispering in my ear. Talking just like she always did when giving us a lecture. I remembered her saying how human will could grow rigid even while it succumbed to temptation.
Humans were like a broken meter whose needle swung back and forth between desire and willpower, always all or nothing, never lingering in between. There was no room for moderation. Even a pigeon had a will of its own. Volition just happened to be a good fit for vertebrates, which was why our brains kept it around.
“Is something wrong? Do you feel unwell? Here, take my seat,” a woman offered, seeing the momentary fear caused by social panic flash across my face. My AR told me that she was a politician—a coordinator or commissioner for an admedistration somewhere—though her face looked no different from anyone else’s. She too was well within the margins. A healthy, standardized face. It was a feature—that is, the lack of distinct features—I assumed you would find even more the higher up you got in the chain of command. I remembered everyone at Geneva headquarters looking more or less the same.
“I’m okay,” I told the politician and went a short distance down the train car. Cian caught up to me, a worried look on her face.
“You shouldn’t have walked away like that. It’s rude. She’s an admedistration councilor somewhere.”
“I know. I saw the AR. Sorry.”
“I think you’re just exhausted from work, Tuan. It must be hard, doing all that. But you’re really making a contribution to society.”
Me, making a
But instead of playing Miach’s doppelgänger, I merely smiled cynically and said, “The real reason they give me a score is because if they didn’t, I’d be labeled a sociopath.”
Cian frowned, not understanding. “So you’re not going home?”
“Probably not.”
Cian stepped in front of me. “Then let’s go get something to eat, at least. There’s this new building near where I live. It looks all bumpy and white from the outside, like it was made out of solid plaster. But when you go inside, you can see out. It’s this new intelligent material, a special light-refracting Styrofoam glass.”
“Sounds pleasant. I’m really not in the mood.”
“We could eat, and then you can come over to my house. It’s only eleven o’clock. How about lunch?”
I had an urge to check with the nonexistent Miach. “Want to go with me and Cian to get some lunch?”
I sighed and told her I’d go with her to lunch. Only lunch. I followed after Cian, getting into the first bean-shaped light yellow train that came sliding down the tracks. My WatchMe linked to my credit account, deducting the appropriate rail fee. I was just realizing how long it had been since I rode the subway in Japan when I looked around at the other passengers and felt a sudden fear grip me.
They were all the same. Everyone.
It hadn’t been so blatantly apparent on the battlefield. Working with an international group meant there were a lot of people from a lot of different places and races around all the time, and more than a few of them were indulging on the sly, like me.
That was definitely not the case here.
For the first time, I realized how bizarre a sight the medically standardized Japanese populace presented. The difference between the couple sitting in the seats nearest to me was no more than the difference between mannequin A and mannequin B. Neither was too fat nor too skinny. Every person on the train conformed to a particular body type. Everyone fit within a healthy target margin. I felt like a stranger in a house of mirrors—a country of mirrors.
How had things come to this? How could everyone be the same when simple genetics told us everyone was different?
The more rigid and narrower the goal, the easier it will be for the weak to achieve.
Miach’s phantom again, whispering in my ear. Talking just like she always did when giving us a lecture. I remembered her saying how human will could grow rigid even while it succumbed to temptation.
Humans were like a broken meter whose needle swung back and forth between desire and willpower, always all or nothing, never lingering in between. There was no room for moderation. Even a pigeon had a will of its own. Volition just happened to be a good fit for vertebrates, which was why our brains kept it around.
“Is something wrong? Do you feel unwell? Here, take my seat,” a woman offered, seeing the momentary fear caused by social panic flash across my face. My AR told me that she was a politician—a coordinator or commissioner for an admedistration somewhere—though her face looked no different from anyone else’s. She too was well within the margins. A healthy, standardized face. It was a feature—that is, the lack of distinct features—I assumed you would find even more the higher up you got in the chain of command. I remembered everyone at Geneva headquarters looking more or less the same.
“I’m okay,” I told the politician and went a short distance down the train car. Cian caught up to me, a worried look on her face.
“You shouldn’t have walked away like that. It’s rude. She’s an admedistration councilor somewhere.”
“I know. I saw the AR. Sorry.”
“I think you’re just exhausted from work, Tuan. It must be hard, doing all that. But you’re really making a contribution to society.”
Me, making a
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