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  I drill, cut, shave, and attach. I solder and bend. I even add in pieces of my childhood chemistry set—repurposing the durable test tubes. A couple of drones help me out but I do most of the work by hand, enhanced with a home improvement gauntlet that reduces injuries and enhances strength and grip.

  It takes me days and I’ve ignored all my calls. I miss five calls from Aimi, two from my parents, and a dozen holonet celeb requests.

  I attach a small retractable slab to the front of the metallic figure before me. That will be the counter.

  I put powder packets into its compartments and turn it on for a test run. The bot empties packages, mixes, adds water with an attached hose, mixes again and shakes. As it shakes, the floor vibrates and I feel the trembling up through my feet and calves. It tinkles out its strange melody as it pours out the concoction, while another appendage reaches in and grabs a straw and places it gingerly into the cup. A compartment ejects an umbrella and a satsuma. The bot grabs these with the same appendage and adds them to the cup. It places the cup on the metal rack.

  The drink stops fizzing and rests.

  I take a sip. I grimace. It needs work. The proportions and balance are off. The drink tastes watery and weak. I can still feel the residue of powder and grit on my tongue. The shaking needs more rigor. The satsuma slice falls right onto my lap, as it wasn’t wedged in well to begin with. The bot looks silly with inelegant protruding parts. It needs a shinier coat and better decor.

  I put down the drink, wipe my mouth with my sleeve.

  My first drink from my first robosake mixologist.

  It might be crude, but we’ll get there.

  AFTER THE MANY STEPS OF ADDING KOJI, STEAMED RICE, AND WATER AND THEN strained through pressing, my family got crude sake. The liquid was milky and viscous. My mom insisted on clear sake—she wanted to recreate the experience of sipping the refreshing waters of a winter creek.

  For that, we had to wait longer. Always the waiting. The crude sake would sit in tanks, filtering, pasteurizing, and maturing. We let the immersed drones do their thing, and waited for the day its aromatic smoothness would grace our taste buds.

  Once done, we started the process again for the next batch, the cycle of working and waiting.

  AIMI HAS HOOKED ME UP WITH HER NETWORK SO THE FIRST ROUND OF SHARED SAKE Socials is with her cycling group. The SKIM-1s (Sake Karakuri Imagination Mixologists), tucked into packages, roll in by air drone. They are gently dropped and the students open the packages in unison as they project themselves on holos. They all delight in the SKIM-1 countenances, cute and doll-like in the karakuri automata tradition of the seventeenth to nineteenth century, but metal and still robot enough not to hit the uncanny valley.

  At the request of the SKIM-1s’ vocalizations, the cyclist students sit back down in their seats in different homes. Out of the robot mixologists’ shoulders, a panel opens up and they project a short menu. After taking orders, the SKIM-1s deliver mixes, ripping packets of kwik koji and brisk yeast, throwing in flavor profiles to order and attaching to water pipes to rehydrate within their chest cavities. They dip, stir, and check the solutions. The students all have their holos of each other up and they’re laughing, having a ball.

  I can see their legs vibrate as the SKIM-1s do the rigorous shake that activates the flash fermentation mechanism, and this elicits more laughter. The SKIM-1s all emit that same strange melody, which I’ve altered to be more lively than dour, as they pour. They fill up ecologically friendly, molded dried squid cups enhanced with keep-cool tech and then add umbrellas and fruit. From the holos, I see one SKIM-1 overpours and the drink spills. I groan. Its cleaning mechanism activates.

  The customers drink and that’s where I lean in and take notes. The students seem to be excited about the flavors, saying mostly “Umai” but without much other context, just laughing about the experience. Once they finish, they take tentative nibbles out of the cup, some saving the rest for later. We leave the SKIM-1s there for a while, in case they want to order more. Once it seems like they’re done and busy chatting, the SKIM-1s fold back into transportable shapes, get repackaged by the drones, and are flown away.

  The success of the pilot run stirs up interest. We tweak, change the cocktails around, update the recipes and troubleshoot quirks. We add more melodies to the repertoire and smooth out the movements.

  Before I can digest that my dream is coming true, my small army of SKIM-1s have full schedules, and are getting split up and sent to different parts of town. I’ve signed deals with a larger delivery drone company, StripedCat, to get them where they need to go. All my initial security worries dissolve. The deliveries come in a seal-all pack. If someone who is not the recipient tampers with the package, an alert gets sent back to the sender and authorities. My hesitation to send out my recipes is erased as event after event goes smoothly. Even the SKIMs are made tamperproof themselves, and are equipped with face scanning and age confirmation devices.

  I worry less about my bar clients, hire a manager to handle those operations, and put my full attention into the Shared Sake Socials.

  WHEN WE DRANK THE FINISHED SAKE, MY MOM INSISTED THAT IT BE A SOCIAL EVENT. She used to invite Ena and me after we’d moved to the city and were no longer involved in the sake process. We’d come back to our rural town for the ritual. Ena would regale my parents with tales of martial arts—perfect tosses in competition and triumph over those who picked on her outside the mats.

  Even two years ago, when Ena’s health was declining, no longer positive with ANVID but still suffering from the consequences of it, my parents brought the sake to us. They put a drop in her porridge, after confirming it would have no interactions with her medication. “For old time’s sake.” I tried shooing them away at the door, telling them they shouldn’t be there, but they declared their tests were negative and said it was their right to see their daughter-in-law. We sat around in masks, sitting at a distance but sharing that one bottle.

  For once, it wasn’t Ena telling stories, but my parents, clinking sake cups and digging deep in their imaginations for tales that would charm us into feeling better.

  OUR SMALL COMPANY, IMAGINATION MIXOLOGY, HAS A GROUP OF PEOPLE WHO monitor the live feeds of these holos. I duck in every once in a while, as I still like to be “on the ground.”

  Our new and improved SKIM-2s have been deployed to more and more locations. Now we’re prefecture-wide. We’ve increased production, but we’re still working with a limited group of employees, as I’m still guarded about our recipes; I have all of the new hires sign nondisclosure agreements. Luckily, the SKIM-2s can’t divulge recipes as they are equipped with the most advanced set of redundant security systems. The memory log is immediately deleted if there has been any tampering and coupled with the benefits of StripedCat’s security features, there hasn’t been an issue.

  Everything has been going smoothly and even the bar has been doing better, with people feeling more relaxed as the weather warms up.

  Aimi’s on board full-time as our director of operations, coordinating drone flight schedules and simultaneous Shared Sake Socials. I’ve retreated to the role of inventing new recipes and improving the body and aftertaste of the flash ferment and ingredients, as well as cooking up new flavor profiles for various versions.

  But I’m restless. I wish I could get my bar back into shape, get people interacting, laughing, and drinking—all in one spot. I thought my bots and these parties on the holo were social enough, but there’s still something eating away at me. I miss running my hands down the bar counter, the sound of chatter and the dishwasher, the smells of colognes and perfumes all intermingling. I want to work toward that goal, but I wonder how.

  I pull a jigger from my pocket and roll it across my knuckles. My mind churns. I consider ways to get involved. Perhaps partner with sanitizing companies? Or volunteer with companies developing vaccines? I don’t think it would bring me back my bar or my customers, but maybe it’s worth a shot—if nothing else it will quell m
y restlessness. I recall Aimi mentioned something about a pharmaceutical company and I make a note to ask about volunteering opportunities.

  AS I’M SETTLING DOWN AT HOME WITH A NEW GINSENG DRINK WITH TRACES OF ginkgo nut and seaweed, I get a message to enter into the holospace that Aimi currently is in. I down my drink and log in.

  It’s a party—of course, they’re always parties—but this time, I see familiar faces. Two to be exact, among about twelve. The spokesperson of Nakamura-Clemont Pharmaceuticals and CEO Ito Yui. I have seen them on the news. Their freeze-dried vaccine has been chosen to be released to the public and received federal approval. They’re drinking cocktails, sudachi sakejitos, from our much sleeker SKIM-2s and chatting through the holos. As I mingle, a drone arrives at my door bearing another SKIM-2 to serve me drinks.

  I’m enjoying the convivial atmosphere, the celebration and the handiwork of the SKIM-2s (such skilled pouring and precision placing of straws and green wedges)—when the spokesperson pulls me aside and Yui draws me into a corner space. I can still hear the muffled sounds of laughter.

  “Congratulations,” I say. “It’s quite an achievement.”

  “Thank you,” she says. She nods at me to take a sip of a sakejito my SKIM-2 has made for me, and I do. I make a note to ask about volunteering before giving her my full attention. She gestures to the crowd behind the masking net. “I asked Aimi to invite you here not just to partake in the celebrations, but also so we could thank you for bringing this party to life. Our researchers have been working day in and day out to make the freeze-dried vaccines work and they deserve this.”

  “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 busin
ess 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.”

  She closes her eyes and takes another sip. Then she gets up.

  Ena’s voice plays in my head as I watch Lila work her magic. “Get up. Keep moving until you see your chance.” Lila has certainly put that into practice.

  Lila leaves me to chat with her influencer friends, as she should, embracing each of them with a long hug while still holding up her cocktail. They take a few selfies with their drinks together, eager to share their collective presence to the world.

  AFTER I WIPE DOWN THE BAR, I RETURN HOME AND TINKER. I PULL OUT MY OLD chemistry set, what’s left of it, lost in thought.

  Feeling all the grooves of the miscellaneous pieces, flasks, and beakers, helps me contemplate possibilities. A thought comes to mind and I stir and blend, bringing in more sophisticated equipment and tubes.