Unfinished as he was, he could feel. The coldness of the stone, the movement of the air. He reached out and pressed his fingertips against the plastic cover of one of the advertising panels: it gave slightly to his touch, and popped out when he released it.

He caught sight of his reflection. His face, smooth and indistinct: pits for eyes, a ridge for a nose, a slit for a mouth. The bumps on the side of his head were ears. He stared closely at himself, in awe, in wonder.

Then, for pleasure: something he hadn’t been able to do since his first heart attack. He ran without guilt or shame or hesitation. He held nothing back. He tore through the underground corridors, his feet eating up the distance, and nothing could stop him.

He turned right for the information bureau, left down the escalators, taking two, three steps at a time. Vaulting the ticket barriers, he ran through the concourse and up the stairs again to street level where it was a brilliant day.

The sun had just risen into a baby-blue sky, and the towers of lost Tokyo basked in its heat.

Petrovitch paused. Nothing ached. He wasn’t out of breath. He wasn’t breathing at all. So he ran again, down the center of the wide, tree-lined boulevard that led directly to an expanse of parkland that extravagantly covered several city blocks.

It was perfect. Too perfect, for certain: not enough inconsistency for reality. Each blade of grass was straight and green, each leaf fluttering in the wind intact. Paint was even, every light worked, and no doubt litter would vanish where it lay.

Not VirtualJapan, then. NeoJapan, Japan made new.

Its architect was waiting for him in front of the Imperial Palace. He stood facing the green-roofed buildings across the deep moat, hands clasped behind his back. No default texture for his avatar. He looked like he did in life; blue jacket with a turned-up collar, matching trousers, close-cropped hair with a short queue.

Petrovitch slowed to a walk and admired the view with him.

“Well, Petrovitch-san, what do you think?”

“I am speechless, Oshicora-san.”

“In a good way, I trust.” He smiled to himself. “There are a few minor details to fix, but do you think the nikkeijin would come as it is?”

“If they were able, they’d come.” Petrovitch hesitated. “Oshicora-san, I’m afraid that there’s been… well. Do you know what pizdets means?”

Oshicora pursed his thin lips. “Something has gone wrong?”

“Yeah. Look, there’s no easy way to say this.”

“Then,” said Oshicora, “we should drink sake and talk. Yes?”

Petrovitch nodded. “I have no idea how this is going to work, but sake sounds good.”