Epilogue

This is my story. That’s what I’m going to say once I’ve finished it.

I left the Forces. There was no one alive left to stop me. After returning from that last mission in Africa I felt that something inside me was missing. It took me a while to realize this for myself, and in the meantime many of my colleagues suggested various forms of counseling.

I brushed all the well-meaning suggestions aside. After my return to America I found that people were speaking in ways I found too fast and slippery. I found myself unable to fully participate in conversations. It was too difficult to join in, so I just stopped speaking to people.

One day, while I was holed up hermitlike in my house, doing nothing, I received an ID and a password in the post.

The envelope was embossed with an expensive-looking InfoSec company logo. It was the company my mother had subscribed to.

The envelope was addressed to me.

The sealed letter explained that, per the terms of the Fourth Amendment to the Personal Information Protection Law, when a person dies intestate and without specific instructions for the disposal of their subscription information assets, all accounts are embargoed for three years, and then all of the intestate party’s accounts are passed onto their next of kin as designated at the time of the opening of the account. As such, and the embargo now having passed, I was now the official owner of the information account of one Ms. Elyssia Shepherd (deceased).

In this society of ours, where everything is recorded and stored for posterity, you occasionally encounter this sort of blast from the past. It was a bit like being in a traffic accident—it’s not exactly a rare occurrence, but no one expects it to happen to them. I was no exception.

I didn’t believe that there would be anything my mother would have particularly wanted to share with me though. I was her next of kin by default; my father had already departed this world when she set up the account, and so I, her son and only child, was the default choice.

The sealed letter provided me with two potential pitfalls.

The first was my mother’s memories in and of themselves.

The second was the fact that, when I had to choose between my mother living or dying, I never put in a request to consult the memories.

When it had been medically determined that my mother was in a no man’s land between life and death and in a place that no living person would ever hope to experience or imagine, I could have put in an official request to the InfoSec company for permission to read her Life Graph. Both the law and the InfoSec company were able to grant special dispensation for a concerned third party to do so when the subscriber was unconscious or medically incapacitated.

I never put in the request. I just chose for my mother to die without reading her Life Graph.

I wonder why I had been afraid of reading my mother’s memories back then? I can’t remember exactly why anymore. All I remember is that I was vaguely frightened and that I didn’t want to.

What about now? Was I still afraid? I probably was. After experiencing the deaths of Lucia Sukrova and John Paul, however, it was now a different type of fear.

The afternoon after the letter arrived was terrifyingly silent. I felt that people were watching over me to see if I would use the account to read my mother’s online memories. When I say people I meant the dead, of course.

After fifteen minutes of hesitation, I accessed my mother’s account and commanded the Life Graph to compile her biography for me.

John Paul had passed me a notebook back in the jungle. I flicked through it to skim its contents, but it was full of obscure academic jargon too difficult for me to understand.

But there was one thing in the notebook that was to prove useful later on. The user name and password of an email account.

An interesting development was that the press somehow found out the true reason for the former senate majority leader’s abrupt withdrawal from public life. I never discovered where the leak came from. An investigative committee was formed and Congressional hearings were held. Even as the whole affair was dragged out into the media, the former senator seemed unrepentant. He made a bold declaration—that we in the US of A always needed the spectacle of war. At any given time, we needed a war to be happening somewhere in the world. And above all, we needed the tragedy of war to be happening somewhere else, in some place where it couldn’t affect us directly. He explained that he had come to this realization some time ago, and that only by being a witness to these sorts of wars could people truly self-actualize and become aware of the potential of their own selves.

This wasn’t the old-fashioned theory that all people in a country needed a common enemy so that they could pull together as a unified nation. No. It was about wars happening overseas, somewhere, vaguely, and being able to pick up on the rustles and murmurs, like background music in a shopping mall. That was what we needed for the twenty-first century, the former senator explained. And John Paul had been the man for the job—he had been able to ensure a steady supply of war.

As a former member of the Special Forces, and as a former member of an elite top-secret assassination unit that performed the government’s dirty work, I was given a huge amount of face time at his hearing and given ample opportunity to tell my stories again and again, just the way I wanted to. Because of my revelations, Washington was plunged into the greatest scandal yet of the twenty-first century, possibly one of the biggest of all time. Of course, my actions violated the State Secrets Protection Act, which was why it came to pass that the US Armed Forces Intelligence Captain Clavis Shepherd was indicted.

In the end, though, the long arm of the law never did get around to dealing with me. There was rioting across the nation by that stage, and the powers that be found that they had far bigger fish to fry. Various state National Guards found themselves opening fire on ordinary citizens, and in turn their armories were being swept away by insurgents who were arming themselves to the teeth to fight back.

Finally, I settled down to read the Life Graph, under the beady eyes of my ever-vigilant spectral companions.

My mother’s life, as regurgitated by computer software.

The story of the pair of eyes that constantly watched over me.

So why was there was no room for me in this story?

Traces of my mother’s gaze. The feeling that I was constantly being watched. These were my childhood memories. And it seemed that they were betrayed. If my mother’s biography according to the Life Graph was anything to go by, I barely featured at all in her life.

I wasn’t completely absent, of course. The important events and landmarks were all there, but with minimal detail. Almost as though I were an afterthought. The person who really came to life in my mother’s memory was my father. Overwhelmingly. The man who had blown his brains out and suddenly disappeared from my mother’s life. And yet he had not disappeared at all. Not from her memories.

Mom wasn’t looking at me. She had never been looking at me.

I could now say with confidence that the person who’d scrubbed my father’s splattered brains off the walls after he shot himself was my mother.

Everybody’s life story is interwoven with sections of other people’s stories. My story contained elements of Mom’s story, of Williams’s story, of the stories of Lucia Sukrova and John Paul. But Mom’s story barely mentioned me at all.

But …

I tried to work out what had actually happened in my past then. That constant presence, the gaze that I always felt on the back of my collar. It had to have been real. It had to have been. Even after all these years I could still remember, vividly, the goose bumps I used to feel when I met my mother’s gaze from the most exquisite of angles, such as from that little slip of space between the kitchen and the hallway to the bathroom. We were like two snipers targeting one another, discovering the spine-tingling coincidence that the other was looking at you through their scope at the very same instant that you had found them with yours.

And yet the record that was supposed to confirm that this constant gaze I’d felt upon me was indeed a mother’s love was curiously, bafflingly, bewilderingly absent.

So what the hell was it?

If I thought that I was empty after that last mission, well, I hadn’t seen anything yet. Because now I was empty. Now I was hollow. Now there was a gnawing void inside me.

And John Paul’s notebook filled that void. It was a perfect fit. Maybe it was even the case that the notebook sensed the void in me and picked me out.

So I’m feeling pretty satisfied because I’d been able to squeeze in plenty of appropriate grammatical forms into the news clip I’m now watching. The email account that John Paul left me contained a text editor that could generate a grammar of genocide for the English language.

John Paul had used this to imbue all kinds of words with the tincture of death. He had disseminated those words around the world. Well, that was then. This was now. I’m weaving my own tale of genocide.

John Paul’s grammar was, in a way, like sheet music. As an homage, I decided to make my version as close to music as I could.

So I chanted it and I recited it. The sound. The rhythm. I prayed, deliberately, intensely: I want you to start killing each other. Just like so many people outside America have already killed each other. All the while I thought how nice it would be if someone noticed what I was doing, noticed the simple, functional evidence that this was a prayer, a song.

My words started to take shape, and gradually they penetrated the fabric of American discourse. My words, my songs, my images, my tone of voice, all started seeping into the collective psyche of the people who watched or listened to or had any interest whatsoever in my Congressional hearing. Even if a person merely accessed the Congressional Record after the fact, there was enough latent deep structure embedded into my transcribed speeches for my grammatical tune to kick in inside their minds.

In no time at all the original scandal stopped being an issue. I rammed home the grammar of genocide into this country, the USA, a country that previously never even showed the slightest of omens that a civil war might be brewing. I was a puppet master, a god riding the crest of an unstoppable mechanical force, ruthlessly, relentlessly changing the course of the lives of mere mortals. It was a smooth process, almost automatic.

There have already been plenty of casualties all across the country. And we haven’t even really started yet. The handful of news networks that are still going report that the country is on the brink of an all-out civil war. There haven’t yet been any large-scale massacres that you could properly call genocide though. Not yet. But soon. Soon enough.

The seemingly eternal Starbucks and the once-ubiquitous Domino’s Pizza have disappeared. I knew this was going to happen, of course, so I’d stocked up on supplies big-time. The other day I had to shoot a burglar who was after my hoard. His corpse is still in my hallway. I wonder what I should do with it. The deep structure of genocide has spread across the whole of America, quickly and easily, using English as its vector.

See? There was another way to eliminate the risk of terrorist attacks on the good old US of A after all. Who’s going to bother with us now? We’ve stopped trading internationally, the import and export markets have utterly collapsed. No country is going to have cause to be jealous of us or hate us for our economic imperialism anymore.

You see, I decided to take the burden of sin upon my own shoulders. I decided I was going to punish myself. So I took America, dangerous America, the bane of the rest of the world, and I cast her into the abyss. In order to save all other countries, I gritted my teeth and made up my mind to plunge my country into a Hobbesian bellum omnium contra omnes.

It was a tough decision. But I’ve decided to accept responsibility for it. Just as John Paul accepted responsibility for the lives of people from all the rest of the world.

Outside, somewhere in the distance, I can hear an FN Minimi firing on full automatic.

Oh, hurry up and kill them already so we can get some peace. I’m trying to enjoy my pizza here!

No, it’s still firing on full. The noise is starting to bother me.

But then I think about how everywhere else in the world is quieter now. That makes me feel a little better.

Keikaku (Project) Itoh was born in Tokyo in 1974. He graduated from Musashino Art University. In 2007, he debuted with Gyakusatsu Kikan (Genocidal Organ) and took first prize in the Best SF of 2007 in SF Magazine. His novel Harmony won both the Seiun and Japan SF awards, and its English-language edition won the Philip K. Dick Award Special Citation. He is also the author of Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriots, a Japanese-language novel based on the popular video game series. All three of his novels are available in English from Haikasoru. After a long battle with cancer, Itoh passed away in March 2009.