My mouth moved, forming Cian’s final words along with her.
I’m sorry, Miach.
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<part:number=03:title=Me, I’m Not/>
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01
One thing the declaration achieved was to make everyone in the world shut up for a moment. What were you doing when you heard it?
It was cloudy in this city that day. This city being the capital of Japan.
The clouds hung heavy, gray lumps in the sky over the city, waiting to crush the people who braved the streets. Or maybe I was seeing symbolism in everything due to shock.
Reports said some people got sick just hearing it. Many more reported for immediate therapy. When I heard it, I was in my car driving toward the airport with a passenger—the man with the business cards.
<recollection>
“Ever heard of a business card?”
We were sitting in the classroom during recess time when Miach showed us a small piece of paper.
It was rectangular, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, and there were words on it: our school name, our class number, and in larger text below that, Miach Mihie.
“Check it out. People used to use these to introduce themselves.”
Cian grunted with interest and leaned forward to look at the paper where it lay atop Miach’s desk.
“Can’t write much of a profile on that little thing, can you?”
Miach nodded. “That’s right. And there’s no link to your SA score or medical info either. The main social unit back in the day used to be your company or school, so you wrote that address here on the card. In fact, most people didn’t even use business cards outside of company interactions. There was no need or means to display personal information at other times.”
“Why not?”
“Because privacy was so important back then.”
“Privacy?” Cian giggled. “Miach, you dog!”
“They didn’t have AR like we do, y’know. There were physical limitations to how much information you could get out there.”
“That’s true,” I said, adding so that Cian could understand, “You would’ve had to walk around with a big sign around your neck if you wanted to do what we do today.”
Cian frowned. “But don’t people kind of roll their eyes at you if you don’t display your creds? Was everyone just shadier back then? And, like, suspicious of each other?”
“No, it’s just that you didn’t share your personal information with people like you do now. If you were out in public and someone sat down next to you, you didn’t pay them any attention. Business cards were for when you were obliged to exchange some limited amount of information, and you had to give them to someone else by hand, so it was more targeted than the indiscriminate spray of information we have now.”
“It’s kind of cute,” I said, picking up the little scrap of paper.
Miach grinned. “Isn’t it? I think it’s way more cute and classy than some AR profile hanging over your head. I knew you’d like it, Tuan.”
“Neat, it’s even got a picture!” Cian said, pointing at the colorful illustration on the card. “Did you draw that, Miach? What is it, some kind of symbol?”
“Yeah. It’s our symbol.”
“Our symbol?”
“Yeah. For our trio of comrades. You, me, and Tuan.”
</recollection>
I still had the handmade business card Miach had given me that day in my desk at home. In fact, knowing what a business card was had come in handy once or twice in my work as a Helix agent. I realized that this ancient form of information transfer, completely lost from lifeist society, was still highly valued in negotiations between old-style governments and nations. The Helix agent charged with negotiating cease-fires between the many armed groups in Chechnya and the government in Russia told me that once when he’d produced a business card during a sit-down with one armed group, they’d immediately warmed to him. In places where AR wasn’t yet a part of daily life, the culture of business cards still thrived.
I was remembering all this because of the man who ran up to me in the university parking lot as I was getting into my car and handed me his card.
“Agent Elijah Vashlov, Interpol.”
I took the card from his hand with practiced ease. Agent Vashlov’s eyes widened. “You know what that is?”
“It’s not a business card?”
I glanced at the paper. There was nothing cute about a business card received from a strange man who ran up to you in a parking lot. Nothing cute at all. Besides, with a clear AR display showing me who the guy was anyway, there was no need for business cards, which made this all just a parlor trick.
“I’m familiar with the old custom.”
“Oh, well that’s no fun.”
“I hope you don’t do that to everyone you meet.”
“Actually,” he replied, “I do. Most of them rather like it.”
Vashlov scratched his head sheepishly. He was clearly fond of performance. I asked him what his business was. I’m not made of time, you know.
“How about we talk in your car. We can just drive around.”
“Sorry, but I’m on my way to the airport.” I indicated my car with a jab of my jaw.
“Off to Baghdad, right?”
I stared into the man’s eyes, taking care to hide my surprise. His face betrayed no emotion, though it was clear he’d been trying to catch me off my guard, which meant I was irritating him. That made me glad.
“That’s just what I want to talk to you about,” Vashlov said, his words cool and measured. “Just let me go with you and talk to you on the way to the airport. That’s all I ask. I won’t slow you down.”
After a moment’s hesitation I nodded, and Vashlov told his own car to go home on its own. I got in and set the route, which brought up a display of the predicted time it would take to get to the airport.
“You’ve got one hour,” I told him.
“More than enough,” Vashlov said, getting in next to me.
Something didn’t feel right as we drove through the city streets. Maybe it was the heavy clouds overhead, but something seemed to have added a generous dollop of loneliness to the flat landscape of the city. I stared out the window, trying to dig the source of that loneliness out of the passing scenery with my eyes. I was no more enlightened by the time the car reached the entrance to the expressway and we left the streets behind.
Even the expressway seemed unusually vacant that day. Whatis it? I wondered.
It’s you. You’re lonely, the loneliness answered me.
“With this little traffic, we might get there early,” Vashlov said. Then more quietly he added, “They’re all afraid, you know.”
“Of what?”
“Of someone dying right in front of their eyes. Afraid it might be them.”