Still, this wasn’t the first time he’d encountered the term “cyber patrol”—people who monitored the web, investigated, and when necessary took action when they turned up something against the law, or something harmful or dangerous, or likely to encourage people to commit a crime.
But until he’d seen it with his own eyes, Kotaro never thought cyber patrolling could be a job. He’d had this idea it was something PC maniacs did. Either that or volunteers, which didn’t sound too interesting.
“You’re right, Kotaro. There are people who volunteer to do it, like registered members of a website who patrol the site in their free time.”
“I didn’t know that. I just saw a bit about it on TV.”
The news spot Kotaro had seen reported that the Internet was the place to go for illegal drugs, guns, and child pornography. There were people who recruited friends to help commit shocking crimes. Mass murderers proclaimed their intentions on the web before taking action. After spotlighting a few examples, the program showed how cyber patrols monitored the flow of information on the web and worked to prevent crime.
“It was on in the evening, I think,” said Kotaro. “Some kind of special report.”
“Right. We’ve gotten some attention from the media ourselves.”
Seigo gave Kotaro a quick tour of the office, then brought him to the lounge. It reminded Kotaro of his campus cafeteria in miniature. Everything was tidy and new. A bookcase bulged with graphic novels and other kinds of fiction. There was a vending machine with soft drinks, candy, and instant noodles. Kotaro was surprised to see there was no TV.
The lounge was empty. Everyone at Kumar was hard at it, except for one employee Kotaro noticed, out cold in the nap room.
“So what did you think of that news show? Did it pique your interest?”
“Why? Not much to do with me.”
Seigo laughed and turned to the window. The cathedral dome baked in the summer sun.
“True, our regular employees and contractors all have degrees, a lot of them in computer science.” Seigo reeled off some big-name universities. “We have a lot of midcareer hires too.” He ticked off the names of several major tech companies.
Kotaro was hard put to hide his surprise. Everyone looked so young, so informal, so into it. They didn’t look like they had elite credentials.
He’d missed it by a mile. He laughed to cover his embarrassment. “I knew it. They sure look like pros.”
“They are. They’ve got the background and the chops, otherwise they couldn’t do their jobs. That’s why we’ve never hired students part time. But recently I’ve been trying to get Yamashina to rethink the policy. We need more diversity.
“You saw the people in the office. There’s not much of an age spread. I’m thirty-three and I’m the oldest. Our youngest full-timer joined us last spring. She’s twenty-two. Everyone’s in the peak generation for net users. But as time goes by, the user population is going to get older and younger at the same time. We have to be ready.”
Seigo explained that with more people of all ages joining web society, the kinds of trouble that could occur and the types of difficult and dangerous information circulating would also change. If the patrollers were all in their twenties and thirties, they would start to miss things.
“The web is a world of its own, full of secret signs and double meanings. A lot of words are used to mean something else. Some of the jargon is based on punning, and if you don’t get it, you don’t, even if you share the same language and culture. What we do know is that different generations use words differently, and we have to understand those differences if we’re going to patrol web society effectively.”
Kotaro had never heard Seigo talk this passionately about anything other than futsal.
“We thought we’d start by hiring some older people. There are more people than you’d think who are getting up there, but are really into computers.”
Kotaro found that hard to picture. The only really old member of the Mishima family was his paternal grandfather, who lived near Osaka, and even figuring out how to return messages on his phone was a challenge for him.
“Problem is, most people that age have problems with their eyesight. They can’t pull long shifts either, so we’d have to have a lot of them, and they’d all need training.
“That leaves us with students. In a way, they’re the opposite of seniors. They don’t know how society works yet, or where they’re going. They haven’t developed the skills to navigate the adult world. But without their point of view, there are things we might miss.”
Kotaro wondered what that “point of view” actually was.
“Of course, we’ll also get publicity from hiring college and high school students. Recruiting people from that age group would generate a lot of word-of-mouth. Young people are getting bored chasing information that’s hot for just a day or two. They want something more, like the lowdown on the occupations of the future. Life hacks.”
Kotaro could picture that.
“So listen, Ko-Prime. Want to try working here?” Seigo grinned. “To cure that boredom of yours. You don’t have to think about it too hard. I’ll show you the ropes myself. We’ll figure out a schedule that works for you.”
Kotaro had to admit that it sounded fascinating. He was definitely interested. Still …
“What you’re saying is, I’ll be guinea pig number one for Kumar Corporation’s part-time hiring experiment.”
This brought a burst of laughter from Seigo. “That’s a great way to put it. You’re exactly right. Maybe instead of ‘guinea pig’ you should say ‘prototype model.’ ”
Guinea pig it is.
“So if I screw up, you might decide it’s not a good idea to hire people like me. I’m not sure I want to that responsibility.”
“You always were a straight-up kind of guy, Ko-Prime.”
“It’s not that at all.”
“Don’t sweat it. No one’s going to put success or failure on your shoulders. And there’s something else I haven’t told you.” Seigo lowered his voice and leaned forward. Kotaro found himself doing the same.
“We’re closing the Tokyo office a year from now. This city’s just too expensive.”
When Kumar was starting out, the Tokyo office was essential to get the word to clients. Now that the business was on track and growing, things were different.
“If you close down, what happens to all those people I saw? What happens to you?”
“We’re moving to Sapporo. We’ll have our own building there—well, it’ll be pretty small, but we’re moving ahead with construction. I’m looking forward to getting out of here. I’m sick of Tokyo’s sticky summer nights.”
Services like Kumar’s could be delivered from anywhere. Still, finding the right people would be tough unless the company set up shop in at least a medium-size city. Kumar could put the best hardware money could buy on a remote island or in the mountains, but the software—people—would be missing. Big regional cities like Nagoya, where Kumar was based, were the perfect solution.
“My family lived in Sendai for a while after my father transferred there. It’s a great place. I tried to sell Yamashina on moving up there, but one of our competitors—we don’t have very many—is already based there. It seemed like a good idea to keep our distance.”
Kotaro knew that Sendai and Sapporo were both home to some of the best science schools in Japan.
“If you’re interested in what we do, this is your chance, Ko-Prime. Try it for a year. I mean, even if you end up feeling like you got pulled into a weird job just because we’re friends and you ran into me, you’ll still have a year’s worth of work experience. All you have to do is stick it out.”
“Come on Seigo, it’s not like I’m saying no.”
“Look, I can’t force you to answer right away. Think about it, okay?”
Seigo showed him to the lobby. Kotaro watched him head back to work with a spring in his step.
Kotaro hadn’t come to Jinbocho for any particular book. His father, Takayuki, loved to stroll from one used bookstore to another. He often brought Kotaro with him, and the used-book bug had bitten him too. When he had time on his hands and nothing special to do, Kotaro still went there out of habit.
He checked his smartphone. There was a mail from Kazumi with a long list of celebrity photo collections and manga with maximum prices, asking him to pick them up if he “just happened” to run across them. Kazumi’s suggested prices were unbelievably optimistic. “The bookstores aren’t that stupid,” Kotaro muttered.
Then again, he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t at least try to find something. Along the way he turned Seigo’s offer over in his mind.
Kumar Corporation interested him, but one thing made him hesitate, though Seigo kept telling him not to worry. How could he measure up to the people there? Compared to them he was nothing.
As he went from shop to shop looking for the titles on Kazumi’s list, he found one that specialized in children’s books. The sign in the window said Thousands of Titles, New and Old.
Kumar. Wasn’t that a name from a children’s book? A book about a monster that the founder of the company loved as a kid.
Kotaro knew he couldn’t expect to find it just like that. Still, it would be fun if he could. From the look of the shop, “thousands of titles” was probably an understatement.
He went inside. The shop was pleasantly cool. He walked around on the creaking floorboards, surveying the shelves. All he had to go on was the name Kumar. He didn’t even know the title of the book. He was probably wasting his time.
I must be nuts, he was about to conclude, when a section of shelves caught his eye. A sign read Perennial Favorites. And there it was: Kumar of Jore, its big cover at eye level amid a collection of colorful children’s books.
It was a translation of a foreign book. The author’s name was long and unpronounceable. The artwork and colors were charming, but somehow different from Japanese books for children.
Kotaro glanced furtively up and down the aisle, took the book from the shelf, and opened it.
Kumar was a monster.
That was the opening sentence. It was the only text on a double-page spread. The artwork showed a fjord framed by mountains under a blue sky. There was a little waterfront town in the distance with tall, peaked roofs and a church with a steeple. Kotaro turned the page.
Kumar had always lived in these mountains. He loved the mountains that rose above the fjord.
Right, got it. So what kind of monster is this? What’s he look like? Kotaro riffled the pages, but there wasn’t a single picture of Kumar. Then his eye fell on a line that told him why.
The people in the town could not see Kumar, because he was invisible.
Kumar was a monster who had lived for uncounted years in the mountains overlooking the fjord. In fact, he had lived there for so long that he couldn’t remember living anywhere else.
If this had been a Japanese tale, Kumar would have been the guardian spirit of the mountains. He’d have protected the mountains and the fjord and the little town of Jore from bad monsters, and lived happily ever after.
Kumar loved the town and the people who lived there. He loved the songs they sang at festivals and the music they made. He loved the smell of pancakes that wafted up from the town. He loved the sound of people’s laughter, too, and the church bells.
Kumar was born invisible. That’s the sort of monster he was. But he didn’t suffer; on the contrary, it made him a more formidable opponent for the bad monsters. He could sneak right up on them before they knew it.
But one day, while Kumar was fighting a cunning lizard monster trying to sneak into the town, he miscalculated and let his opponent strike a blow. The wound was deep and painful, and Kumar’s blood poured out. Worse, the precious horn on the top of his head was broken. Long ago his father and mother had warned him that his horn was almost as important as his life.
That was when Kumar saw it. What was this? His body was invisible no more. He could see his arms and legs. He was astonished to see, for the first time, the sharp, curved claws that grew from his fingers and toes.
Without his horn, Kumar was visible. Until it grew back again, everyone could see him.
Oh no!
Then something worse happened. The old belfry keeper and his little granddaughter, up in the tower, caught sight of Kumar.
In an instant, the whole town was in an uproar. A monster! A monster is here! In great pain, Kumar staggered into the mountains. The townspeople kept the lights on all night, and some went into the mountains with torches to search for Kumar. Find the monster! Find him, kill him!
I’m not a bad monster. I’m a monster, but I’m still Kumar.
Kumar shed bitter tears as he fled deeper into the mountains. But no matter how far he went, his pursuers would not give up. Day after day, they harried him and gave him no rest.
Kumar was tired and hungry. He wanted to eat a fish from the fjord.
Just before dawn, Kumar came out of the mountains and went to the shore of the fjord. He could see Jore in the distance. He watched the sun rise above the town.
Lit by the sun, Kumar saw his face and body for the first time in the water.
He looked just like the bad monsters he had been fighting all his life.
My face is no different from the bad monsters. I’m the same color. I have the same tail. That’s why people are so afraid of me. That’s why they harry me and give me no rest.
Kumar walked into the water. He dove in and began to swim. He had to go somewhere far away.
Goodbye, good people of Jore. May we meet again.
Kumar could hear the church bells in the town ringing as he swam away. He never returned. The waters of the fjord were deep and cold, and Kumar was wounded and weary. The waters swallowed him up.
But the story of Kumar was told ever after in Jore, the legend of a terrible monster who came out of the fjord and attacked the town.
There was a brief profile of the author with the unpronounceable name at the end of the book. He was from Norway.
Kotaro closed the book and put it carefully back on the shelf.
He thought he’d like to meet this person named Yamashina, who had loved this book, founded a company, grown it into something real, and named it after Kumar.
Kumar Corporation. I think I’ll give it a try.
3
Kotaro didn’t wait for the elevator. He sprinted up the stairs to the fourth floor. On the way he pulled his key card out of his backpack and slipped the strap over his head.
Today’s shift was eleven to two. It was now 11:12. He stashed his pack and jacket in the hall locker, touched the pad by the door with his card, and pushed it open. Toward the back of the room, in the far left row, Kaname Ashiya was already eyeballing him with a fierce look of disapproval.
Kotaro put both palms together, dipped his head quickly, and called good morning to the rest of the room. The office was two-thirds full, and around half of those present gave scattered responses ranging from grunts to a clipped “morning.” Greetings weren’t required; many of the employees never gave or responded to them because it didn’t contribute to efficiency, and no one took it amiss. Most of the people who did respond never took their eyes off their monitors.
Kotaro paused by the time clock to punch in his ID code, then hurried over the soundproof (and odor-eating) carpet toward his work station.
“Sorry, my bad. Someone cornered me on the way out the door. I missed my express.”
Kaname put on her scariest face. “You owe me big time.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll buy you a Big Mac.”
“Get out of here. Italian.”
Kaname was twen
ty. Her women’s university was in the Tokyo suburbs, within biking distance of Kotaro’s house. She was from Nagoya.
First impressions would have been of a reserved young woman. Her clothes were quiet and refined. Before sitting down for her shift, she would sweep her long, lustrous black hair into an attractive ponytail. Seigo’s nickname for Kaname, “The Lady,” was inspired by the upscale town of Ashiya near Osaka whose name she shared.
Kaname and Kotaro were shift buddies, covering each other’s schedules to ensure there were no gaps in patrolling. Kaname lived in her university dorm and couldn’t take night shifts, but other than that, she and Kotaro would review their schedules against the shifts they needed to cover and trade off flexibly, which was convenient. If one of them missed a shift, it would fall on the other to cover it. This system was effective in making sure that both took their schedules more seriously than the average student part-timer—another of Seigo’s innovations for the “Kumar Corporation Part-Timer Employment Experiment.”
The risk with the buddy system was that if you and your buddy didn’t get along, life could be hell. But Kotaro had been lucky. Kaname was a levelheaded, serious student. Her major was Japanese literature. From time to time she’d throw out a reference to some early modern author that went clear over Kotaro’s head. She also ate like a horse, belying her figure. Kotaro had joined Kumar about a month ahead of her, and in the beginning he’d had to teach her everything, but by now she’d learned to manage without help. She had a fine sense for the nuances of language, which made sense given her choice of major. It wasn’t long before she was patrolling like a veteran.
“I pass the patrol to you.” Kaname yielded her chair to Kotaro.
“The island’s deserted,” Kotaro said as he took the chair. The rest of the seats on their island were empty.