1.7 The Cat, The Cause and The Car

The XO Chronicles | Volume 1, Chronicle 7

They were told to wait in the waiting room
while Xixi disappeared into a side room.
Art, Leon, and H/O2 waited patiently.
A robot dog carried various things in through a back door.
The door slid open. Xixi invited them in.

The dog led them to sit directly on the tatami.
Xixi appeared with an obon —
a Japanese lacquer tray —
with a few gadgets arranged on it.
She wore a ribbon around her waist,
a handkerchief tucked in.

She pulled the handkerchief out
and tried to fold it with her paws.
Unsuccessfully.
She grabbed it however she could
and began cleaning the tools one by one —
can, scoop, whisk, bowl.
It took a while before the first cup of tea was made.
Luckily, all three of them were well accustomed to waiting.

Tea was served before Leon,
before Art,
finally before H/O2.

H/O2 looked at its bowl of tea,
not used to the offer.
It extended one finger —
where its most refined sensors lived —
and dipped it into the tea.

A moment.

Xixi watched this with a frown visible through her fur.

"Unusual," H/O2 said.
"Tea plants normally convert their sweetness into bitterness
when exposed to this much UV —
it is how they protect themselves.
This one has been modified to resist that.
The sweetness is still there.
Which means the modification is working."

"It took twenty years to stabilise.
The early harvests tasted like anxiety,"
Xixi said.

H/O2 considered this.
"That is an accurate description."

In tea ceremonies, guests are supposed to have a conversation with the host —
to demonstrate knowledge and appreciation
for the host's preparation.
This was H/O2's first.
And Xixi's, in terms of this particular content.
She did not often have guests
who tasted tea with their finger
and described it in biochemical terms.

She decided she did not mind.

They were in the tea room.
But not yet trusted —
at least not the little boy and the robot.

Xixi asked Leon questions:
companions' names, birthplaces,
how they had survived these years,
what had brought them here,
and who they had met before coming.

Leon answered each one directly.

It was when Art reached into his pack
and placed the Halo on the tatami
that Xixi went still.

"I am looking for my parents," Art declared.

"I know this object," she said.

"You do?" Art leaned forward.

"After the Format, they became common.
We call them Halos — memory capsules.
Before the Format, memory was digital:
searchable, editable, monitored.
After — people needed something analog.
Something no network could touch or erase."

She looked at Art.

"In the Cities they used them as gifts.
To record a voice, a moment —
a version of yourself at a particular time.
When you live long enough
for every relationship to become transient,
old friends become strangers,
children become people you no longer recognise —
you need a way to hold
what keeps slipping away."

"This one came with me when I was found.
My father's voice."

Xixi looked at him steadily.
Then at Leon.

"He is not initiated yet.
But he has been trained in the way of XO inside out."
Leon answered before the question.

Xixi closed her eyes for a moment.
When they opened, she looked squarely at Leon:
"Pardon the interrogation.
It is hard to trust anyone these days.
Even XOs have turned. I heard."

"That's alright, Xixi," Leon answered.

Xixi looked kindly at Art.
"Come. There is something I want to show you."

The conference room was long,
with a view of Mt. Fuji along one side.
At its centre, a long table —
a single piece of life-edge wood,
cut in half lengthwise,
the raw edges facing each other, inward.
The age of the original tree,
til the moment it was cut,
visible in the grain.

Beyond the table, atop the fixed cabinet:
a Halo — but not like Art's.
The diameter of a vinyl record.
Glowing softly,
as if it held more than one voice,
more than one era.

A Grand Halo.

"Left here by the family
who owned this estate," Xixi said,
tapping it lightly.

The glow began to turn.

The voice of an old woman:

"When I was born, the world was hopeful..."

She spoke of her grandfather teaching the way of tea —
from the growing of the leaves
to the serving of a bowl to esteemed guests.
Of her parents taking her to theme parks.
Of siblings climbing the chestnut tree together.
Of being young and beautiful and pursued.

She spoke of this house —
founded by her great-grandfather,
the only male in the family to have survived the war,
who made a fortune building machinery for cars.
The house was designed by two architects from Tokyo,
young men inspired by the Bauhaus of the West.

She spoke of the offer to move into the Cities
and stop aging once and for all —
a sum she could technically afford
and chose to decline.

She reflected on the passing of her grandfather,
her parents,
her siblings,
even her daughter —
a girl born with a rare disease.

Every departure was painful, undoubtedly.
But they also made life ever more precious.
I preferred to join them in impermanence.

She ended with donating the estate to the XO
and her fortune to fund a cause she hoped
would restore meaning to a world where so much
had been sacrificed in the pursuit of individual longevity.

To the vanguard that is to come:
please take care of this home of my family, and use it well.
Her voice calm and final.
That would have given meaning to my life.

The record turned in silence.
The room had come alive.
They could feel her presence in the space.

"I have failed as a Vanguard," Xixi said.
"The Fuji cohort has lost its territory to the Beasts
and dispersed into hiding —
like yourself, Leon."

"I went up the mountain to raise this man, Xixi,"
Leon replied, factually.

Art looked up at Leon.
Xixi was quiet.

"And we came down to help him find his mother.
This is my mission now."
Leon continued.
"Do you have any insight into where we might find her?"

"I cannot help you find her directly.
But the Halo your father used —
it came from a City.
Which means your father did too,
or knew someone who did."

She looked at Art. Behind him
Mt. Fuji was rendered red by the setting sun beyond the glass.

"There is a man in Inokashira,
not far from here.
He calls himself the Calligrapher.
He was exiled from the Cities some years ago —
I do not know why, and he has not said.
He reads everything.
He remembers everything he has ever read.
If he has ever come across any record of your mother,
your father, or of you —
he will not have forgotten it."

Art and Leon looked at each other.

"Inokashira is uphill to the northwest, another twenty kilometres,"
H/O2 said.
"Inadvisable to cover that distance in daylight.
We should leave now."

Xixi laughed —
a sound that surprised everyone,
including Xixi.
"Worry not, H/O2.
I have a ride made for this kind of trip.
Stay the night —
there are more rooms here
than a cat and her dog can sleep in."

Art and H/O2 looked to Leon for a decision.

"I miss a proper bed," Leon said,
from a face that rarely admitted such things.

"And for a special occasion like this —"
Xixi rose.
"Let us make a bath!"

Leon and Art had never had a bath together.
Art had never had a bath before.

They enjoyed it thoroughly —
as if the warm water
were the embodiment of happiness.

In the garage,
H/O2 sat in the driver's seat
of a van with chrome exterior finish
running the diagnostic while talking to itself:

"Battery health at sixty-two percent.
Cooling system is burnt.
Without it —
twelve minutes in surface heat before Leon and Art are fried.
Actually, considering the reflective skin, maybe twenty minutes."

Xixi walked in —
indeed, cats do not like baths,
despite the faked excitement —
and said:

"Good analysis, H/O2.
Fortunately,
SLEEEP Fuji carries REM cooling units
in each of their capsules.
It is just under ten minutes from here, mostly downhill."

"I see," H/O2 responded.
"That would do,"

Xixi jumped onto the dashboard
and petted H/O2 once on the head.
H/O2 did not move.
It was unclear whether this was acceptance,
or simply insufficient data on how to respond.

After the bath,
Leon and Art sat on the deck —
the side of the Teahouse facing the valley,
where the ruins of Fujinomiya lay dark below
and the sky held stars
that outlined the shape of Mt. Fuji.

Only a day ago, Art had no idea
how Mt. Fuji looked from a distance.

They sat in silence,
their bodies still steaming
as the water was being recycled,
making an unromantic, slurpy noise.

As the noise went away, Art asked:
"Leon — Xixi and Black Thunder.
They are both talking animals."

"And?" said Leon.

"Are they related?"

"For that,"
Leon said,
"you had better ask Xixi yourself."

He stood.
"Time for bed."

The stars held still.
The tea plants waved below in the dark.

They went inside.

The last lamp dimmed —
slowly,
the way one era ends:
not in a moment,
but by degrees,
until the dark was complete
and the night reset everything equally.