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Part 1.0: Chapter 1 00000001

1.0

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It was dark, darker than it would have been with his eyes closed. Yoshi blinked to make sure they weren't. The mask weighed hardly anything, a synthetic microweave, Yoshi guessed. Polyurethane maybe, or another polymer with a thermoplastic coating on the inside. The mask was light on his forehead and was not uncomfortable though it fit snugly. Yoshi wished he could explore the materials further with his fingers, but his arms were strapped to the chair in which he sat. The straps, like the mask, were snug but soft and not constricting. He probably could have freed himself from them, he thought, but he imagined that would be frowned upon. He lay back into the soft, reclined chair and tried to relax.

He breathed deeply. He'd studied for a semester across the Sea of Japan in Seoul, where he'd taken weekly Tai Chi lessons at a dojo above his favorite Bibimbop spot. He used the breathing techniques that always calmed him so much: deep in through the nose and calm circular exhale back through the nostrils. He'd just have to imagine the beautifully-flowing moves that accompanied the breaths.

Breathe in.

Hold at the top.

Breathe out.

Be nothing.

Back and forth, back and forth.

He wasn't sure how many cycles of breath he'd gone through when he noticed the images flickering across the inside of the mask. He tried to focus on them, but couldn't quite grasp them; it was as if he was he was trying to hold a mound of sand with outspread fingers. What did it mean? His mind, usually so adept at translating symbols to meaning, was failing him. Were they numbers? Letters? Symbols? He couldn't be sure.

He continued his Tai Chi breath. In. Out. Repeat. Again, he lost track of his cycles. He stopped trying to focus on the data streaming before his eyes. Suddenly, he did feel some sort of understanding of it, as if the data were inside of him, not flickering across the backside of his mask. Not that he could put the understanding into words or even coherent thoughts. In fact, he had no coherent thoughts; just the data, his breath, and himself, alone in a darkened room.

1 00000001

Li awoke, head throbbing, underwear stuck to her skin, jeans stuck to her legs, internal clock stuck on Australian Eastern Standard. She smacked her lips. Her mouth was as dry as the outback the plane had left in its wake. Head on a swivel, clocking the wood paneling along the walls, tacky and passé, the handlebar mustache of wall coverings. The overhead light fixture missing a bulb. The single box window's drapes were just barely cracked—a thin pall of light from a gap between them settled about the room. How long had she been asleep? Dan knew that her flight got in around noon and was supposed to have come meet her after P.M. classes.

Where was he?

Perturbed, she tried to sit up. She felt like that frog trying to pull itself out of a pail of butter, or cheese, or whatever he'd made from the proverbial milk—that singularly oppressive feeling all world travelers know.

She took some deep breaths. Searched for and found her plastic water bottle, conspicuously emblazoned with an Australian brand logo from the airport, conspicuously out of place in this Midwestern U.S.A. room, a relic from the future. She drank until the bottle was empty, wondered if water transported halfway around the world transmuted into something more than just water, decided it didn't, stood slowly, and trudged to the small adjoining bathroom. Dan's toiletries were stacked neatly on the counter. Li cupped a few gulps of water into her mouth and spit, splashed some onto her face. When she returned to the room for her makeup kit, she noticed, on the small table in between the room's two double beds, a letter written in black marker.