Interestingly, Coeus and I hadn’t yet considered creative endeavors in our exploration of what does and does not constitute work. They were produced and then distributed to the populace, so in that sense the entertainment production-complex was not too dissimilar to agriculture or manufacturing, but would probably fall under the tertiary sector of the economy as a kind of service. This all seemed to fit into our understanding of work just fine—the only potential inconsistency I could think of was in the physics sense of the word Coeus and I had discussed a few days prior.
By the physics definition, work had to involve some sort of displacement, or else it could not be said that work had been done. But what could a piece of entertainment media possibly be said to “displace” or even “move”? An abstract application of the concept perhaps, but one worth considering in our search for some sort of commonality between the various definitions of work. If we assumed the effort put in by the creator was the “force,” and the viewer, reader, or listener was the object, then what was being displaced by consuming the work with our eyes and ears? Our minds? This seemed plausible. Our senses would send those signals to receptors in our minds and cause our synapses to fire so as to formulate emotional responses and create new memories associated with the stimuli. The state of our minds could thus be said to have “displaced” from what they were prior to consumption of said media. This wasn’t a large physical displacement, but it was transferring information from one place and one format to another. Or, to put it in somewhat corny layman’s terms—works of art were designed with the goal of moving the heart of the beholder.
“A type of work done solely to move people’s hearts… Interesting,” I murmured to myself—though apparently, I was loud enough for Professor Beckmann to hear, as he shot me a curious glance. I explained to him the current state of the working hypothesis Coeus and I had been attempting to develop, and the thought process I’d gone through to fit creative works into it just now. The professor listened closely to all that I had to say.
“Hrm, I suppose that’s an interesting way of looking at it. Though I dare say that what I’ve got here may not fit so cleanly into that definition,” he said, turning his holofield so that I could take a look. It showed what appeared to be a poem by this Kenji Miyazawa fellow. “This poem was found scribbled in a small pocket notebook among the author’s belongings shortly after his death, and was only published posthumously. This was the journal he kept at his sickbed, into which he etched his most personal thoughts, and it was written almost like a memo to himself amongst the other entries in the journal. Though today it’s regarded as one of his finest works, most scholars agree that it’s quite possible he never intended to share it with anyone else, and was more a set of personal guidelines he wished to hold himself to than an actual poem.”
“He was just hitting a tennis ball against the wall, in other words,” I said.
“Well, yes. Although in this case, it just so happened to break through the wall.”
I tried to picture what that must have entailed, in the context of our abstract analogy. It would take an enormous amount of force to make that little rubber sphere break through a brick wall and reach another human being—especially when the author himself hadn’t intended for it to do any more than simply bounce right off. That little ball would have to be something extremely special.
“Go ahead and read it,” said the professor. “It’s a fairly short poem.”
I glanced down at the holofield the professor had lent me. He was right about it being short; only two pages, according to the page counter. I did as he suggested and took a minute to read the poem.
Be not defeated by the rain
And never let the wind hold sway
Stand tall in times of bitter snow
And boldly through the summer go
Be sound of body, and in kind,
Bear no desire in your mind
Let not anger’s grip take hold
Be always smiling, never cold
In all things an observer be
Think not “How does this affect me?”
With peeled eyes and open ears
Hold every learned lesson dear
To supplement your daily rice,
Veggies and miso should suffice
A thatched-roof dwelling in a glade
Where sturdy pines can offer shade
If in the east a child lies ill,
go ease their pain and hold them still
If in the west a mother toils,
go bear her sheaves and till her soil
If in the south a death draws near,
go tell him he has naught to fear
If in the north a fight breaks out,
go mediate the sordid bout
In times of drought, and summers cold,
Cry for the land and all its souls
A nobody who wanders free
Not praised or given sympathy
Known to all as only me
Such is the man I aim to be
Just as I finished reading, I heard a ringing sound, and a new holofield window appeared atop the poem, informing the professor of an incoming call. All three of us were receiving this transmission, as I could hear the same tone coming from Lei’s and my holofields as well. I returned the professor’s holofield to him and grabbed my own—whereupon I was immediately greeted by Narain’s surly expression. Like always, he cut to the chase without any felicitations.
“Phoebe’s preparations are now complete,” he said.
In response to this, a map of our current progress along the migration route appeared on the holofield. The original plan was to arrive at our destination in fifty days. It was now day forty, which meant that Phoebe’s preparations had been completed with ten days to spare before our arrival in San Francisco. How very like a Titan to get things done so far ahead of schedule.
“Once Coeus arrives, we’ll need twenty-four hours to make our final on-site adjustments. Then we’ll conduct the rendezvous as planned,” said Narian. “That’s all for now. Dismissed.”
And with that, he ended the transmission. Professor Beckmann chuckled to himself, saying something about Narain being “all business and nothing but,” but I didn’t quite understand what he meant by this.
I looked across the tent and made eye contact with Coeus. He’d overheard the call, and looked extremely tense. He likely knew, deep down, that his life would surely change immensely after this meeting with Phoebe. This coming together of two all-powerful Titans would undoubtedly turn out to be one of the greatest feats of work the world had ever known—and there was a very good chance it might be the last time Coeus and I would ever get to work on anything together. And so I did the only thing I could do. I smiled, and tried my best to reassure him. He looked at me like I’d just flicked a pebble at his forehead.
“Just ten days left,” I said. “Anything you want to try to squeeze in between now and then?”
Coeus caught my meaning, and beamed back at me with a broad and effervescent smile. This was the final leg of our vacation—and so help us, we were going to make these last ten days count.
14
I saw a whale for the first time in my life. A humpback.
Just as it breached the surface, then came crashing back down.
Coeus accidentally crushed part of a harbor beneath his foot.
The locals were furious, and we apologized profusely.
We met a group of Native American heritage.
They gave us a traditional wood-carved mask.
Supposedly, it helped soothe maladies of the mind.
We stayed the night at an island bed and breakfast.
The proprietor was a merry and musical fellow.
He played his guitar for us, and we both sang along.
Coeus helped out with a small land development project.
He plucked a few trees, then flattened a small hill.
All the locals came out to thank him personally.
We watched our first movie together.
I cried like a baby, and Coeus did not.
He watched it again three times after.
We happened upon a very large suspension bridge.
A large crowd had gathered to watch us as we passed.
We saw a forest fire.
A sea of flames, consuming all life in its wake.
More than anything, we took pictures.
So, so many pictures.
We talked about work.
We talked about ourselves.
We’d stay up talking late into the night.
Until with lidded eyes, we fell asleep.
Then the next day, we’d wake up together.
Walk together.
Eat together.
Laugh together.
Until before we knew it, we’d arrived.
At the place where Phoebe awaited us.
San Francisco Bay—the Twelfth Intelligence Base.
In Silicon Valley, the Land Where Gods Toil.
Our journey—was over.