“You’re welcome,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to honor the people who have worked hard to make this vaccine happen.”
“We’ll still be needing your services as we have many milestones ahead and our employees need a way to celebrate. This is only a small portion of our staff. We have many challenges facing us and these socials give them some reprieve between intense meetings.”
“Challenges?”
“We are testing ways to release the vaccine to the public. We are disseminating vaccines to hospitals and conducting home visits, but the deployment is still slow.”
“Might I suggest StripedCat? I have nothing but good things to say about their delivery services.”
“Yes, we are looking at a number of distribution services. My staff is weighing the benefits and risks of each.”
Through the holo, she gazes at me with an intensity that reminds me of my wife before she would execute a judo throw. The holo doesn’t dilute the effect at all. I see the fervor and depth of intention behind the bronze eyes.
Yui’s voice shifts in tone, edged with impatience. “I only wish that the vaccines could come to them. The old, the weak. Some can’t leave their houses. And medicine can’t administer itself. The costs for the ambulance services to bring the vaccines to them have been hefty.”
Her relentless gaze rests on my drink and moves up to meet my eyes. She tilts her chin, and raises her eyebrows questioningly.
I detect a slight vibration beneath my feet, picked up and transmitted by the holos, the signature feel of the cutting edge mixologist’s cocktail shake in one of the physical rooms of these pharmaceutical researchers. From behind the masking net, one of the SKIM-2s plays its signature melody indicating the pour.
I would help. I am going to volunteer, I told myself.
I saw a vision then.
My SKIMs deployed, draining not sake into the mouths of clients but concoctions administered into muscles to stir up antibodies. My enterprise—and my impatience—redirected to partake in a global effort to minimize the effects of the pandemic. Each client treated, not entertained—and injections, not mini umbrellas, that signal the end of the interaction.
I can hear the voice of my wife calling me, asking me to help her, as she got thinner and thinner, her usual muscular physique reduced to a gaunt skeleton.
It can’t be more than my imagination making me think that the holo has been enhanced or warped, but I feel a strange connection, like I am in sync with Yui’s thoughts.
“Yes, yes, I see. SKIM-2s are quite versatile, implementing various drink designs and deployments.”
“They indeed are.” She takes a sip from her own sakejito, her lips on a thin straw pulling up liquid. I imagine something else tube-like, a needle entering into a muscle, a thick one like a deltoid, the flow of the liquid preparation absorbed into the bloodstream, coursing with the red blood cells. Vaccines.
I pass her credentials to my direct hololine.
“Let’s talk more after the party,” I say. I feel in accordance… with what I’m not sure. But it feels right, proper. It must be the feeling my mom calls chanto suru.
In the universe, something clicks into place.
ENA USED TO TELL ME THAT WHEN SHE EXECUTED A PERFECT THROW, EVERYTHING clicked into place. The body is squared up, the opponent rides up right where she wants them to and the toss itself is not difficult.
Just a quick turn and pull and they’re right where you want them.
THE CONVERSION HASN’T BEEN SO DIFFICULT. THE FREEZE-DRIED VACCINES NEED to be reconstituted. Then, with care, administered.
I confer with medical engineers, Aimi, and biopharmaceutical higher-ups. We repurpose the mechanical shake of SKIMs to fit the parameters to rehydrate the DNA molecules. The vaccines are powdered and their color and constitution look a lot different from my kwik koji and brisk yeast lines—they certainly don’t emit that hallmark fermented smell. Instead, the vaccine powder—immune-dust as we call it—seems almost inert, with little smell at all. So little presence for something so critical to a robust society.
We decide to automate the administering of the vaccine with redundant feedback loops to reduce errors. A team of operators would handle reprogramming the bots, refitting the manipulator designed for positioning straws and pointy umbrellas to positioning the needle for the injection.
We iron out the kinks in trials and test runs. Then we deploy them to a host of volunteers.
THE FIRST TWO TRIAL RUNS FAIL. THE HONING DEVICES WEREN’T EXACTING AND WE need a method to calm patients.
I start losing sight of what it’s worth. All this—life. Holding on so dearly when my dearest friend and partner slipped away from me.
My ikigai slipping. What was it anyway? Did I ever have one?
I think of Ena’s mantra: “When you get thrown, take the fall. Then get up. Keep moving until you see your chance. It’s not about expediency, it’s about getting the right move in.”
I put aside my sake cup. I think of new mechanisms of delivery for the SKIM-2s. I get up, clear some space. There’s a chance here somewhere, I just have to find it.
Get the right move in.
I’m impatient. We have to move quickly to save more people.
I REPROGRAM THE SKIM-2S TO GO ALONG WITH THE SKIM-3S AND SERVE ALCOHOL OR any mocktail or drink on the menu. Then the SKIM-3s swoop in to deliver the shot. These injection givers make use of the mixologist’s distraction.
Unlike the socials with the SKIM-2s, these events are not gatherings and the atmosphere is apprehensive, but there’s a feeling of release when the needle pierces skin and delivers the concoction, much like when the cocktail hits the throat. You can almost hear the audible sighs.
And the action’s fast. Blink and you might not notice it. The delivery of the inoculation is as quick as one of Ena’s signature throws. Getting them right where you want them.
Aimi said to nix the music. We don’t play a jingle anymore. Not for the injections. It’s enough that the vaccine receivers get a small drinkable treat.
Cocktail and inoculation, all rolled up into one event.
A cause for celebration.
WE PARTNER WITH THE BIOPHARMACEUTICALS IN RELEASING THE VACCINES IN A wider form. Bars open again and people are eager to socialize. Maybe we’re in the calm between storms. Maybe the virus will mutate. Maybe we’ll get lucky (or savvy) and we’ll be back to business as usual for a long while. In the meantime, we have the skilled SKIM-3s, should we have new vaccines needing some tried-and-true delivery methods.
Back in the bar, I welcome my first customer, Lila, put together as always. She can’t quite get enough of my drinks. I smile, tossing a shiso leaf into a sake-infused drink a SKIM-2 usually makes, now brought to life by my own hands.
She leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek, takes a gulp from the glass and the look on her face could make headlines.
She takes a few more sips in silence. Wiping the perspiration from the glass, she says, “This is almost as good as the way SKIM-2 makes it.” She punctuates her tease with a wink.
“Almost as good, huh?” I say. I pat a SKIM-2 near me. “What can I say? They’re programmed by the best.” The bot’s on standby, there mostly to keep me company, but it stands erect, as if in a salute. I can’t help but be proud.
“The best.” She chuckles. “Of course they are. The best programs I’ve ever sipped.” She takes another gulp and mixes the liquid with her stirrer. “That’s why I’ll be asking you for an interview. Let’s talk more once I’m done with this drink.”