Make Shift: Dispatches from the Post-Pandemic Future

9 Mixology for Humanity’s Sake ^{D. A. Xiaolin Spires}

OVER THE SOUND OF UBIQUITOUS BUZZING, MOM YELLED FROM BEYOND THE SCREEN door, “Rikuta, come out and help the planting drones.”

I put the test tube into the holder, as the concoction fizzled. “But, Mom, I’m busy.” I called out for the cleanerbot and it swung in and wiped off the puddle from the tatami floor. The cleanerbot’s light blinked as it ran into the table, a series of gurgling melodies escaping from its speakers, repeatedly knocking more of the sparkling amazake drink I made onto the tatami. The smell of sweet fermented rice filled the room as the spill spread. “Gotta fix this broken thing.”

“Rikuta!” Mom’s voice roared. I turned off the cleanerbot, wiped up the rest of the spill myself, careful to move aside the fluffy zabuton I was sitting on so it wouldn’t get soaked. I threw the towel over my shoulder.

I raced over to the back door, jammed feet into slippers and hiked up my pants. I saw my dad in one of the plots, back bent and knee-deep in muddy water and beelined him. I wasn’t really keen on planting the seedlings but once Mom’s voice hit those registers, I knew she meant business. I also knew it meant a lot to her to have this family time together.

Around us drones descended onto the wet paddy, their metal pincers piercing through the water’s surface and sticking the seedlings in. I grabbed a handful of tender seedlings from the cart, wrapped them in my towel and tucked the whole thing into my pants like a makeshift quiver. I stuck my bare foot into the paddy and felt an immediate wave of cold overtake my body as the water reached my calves. Chilly mud crept between my toes. At least it was warm out. Drones buzzed around me as they completed their rows of green. It smelled of organic life. My foot released with repeated sucking sounds as I moved to an unfinished row and stuck the seedlings in. Dragonflies fluttered past me, their buzzes next to my ear louder than the drones. I completed row upon row, racing with the drones, until my back hurt.

MY BACK HURTS AS I LIFT THE TENTH KOJIBUTA, THE WAFTS OF SWEET FERMENTATION coming from the cedar box that holds the rice and the fertile fungus, a heavenly marriage of a marinade. The aspergillus oryzae mold spores have done their job incubating in the kojimoro and I smell the koji’s wondrous pungency. I’m distracted by my throbbing back, however, and rub my lower back through my lab coat. I bend over the koji, raking my hands through the rice mixture for a bit before I let my automata buddy Kushi handle it. When I was a kid, Mom would tell us to get the wooden rake and use our legs to get into the raking, but Mom was okay dealing with back pain and I’m not.

Kushi does the job with his giant hand and metal fingers. As he rakes, his mechanical arm advancing and retreating, I take a break. I step outside and am about to open a bottle of last week’s homebrewed sake. Before I can twist off the cap, I sniff in Kushi’s direction. Now that I’m sitting and comfortable, I smell it. Something foreboding. I put down the unopened bottle. Something’s not right.

WE RECYCLED BATCHES OF SAKE, WHEN THEY WEREN’T CLEAR ENOUGH, AROMATIC enough, or fermented enough.

“Something’s not right,” Mom would say. She complained of an off-smell sometimes. We reconfigured the drones and she made us all run through sanitation procedures. “Sniff the batch, and everything that touches it—your hands, your clothes, make sure it all smells right,” she said. “Never forget to judge your sake, thinking of ways to improve.”

I SNIFF AGAIN. I STEP BACK INTO THE HUMID KOJIMORO. THERE, THAT’S IT. I WALK to the back of the room and the smell hits me again, stronger. It’s a bit off, a faint acridness tucked into sickly sweetness. I had hand-selected new strains of rice and added the Kwik Kultivation Krystals before steaming the rice and all went well. But, now I feel like my throbbing back’s giving me some kind of warning. I check on the koji.

They look okay, but the smell… it doesn’t lie.

I hurry back to Kushi, turn him off and stare at the mounds of koji before me. A sinking feeling fills my chest. I had so anticipated this moment, but now my smile’s faded and I face the reality of risks realized. I sniff in deep. There it is. That off-putting, lingering aftersmell. The koji was not sublimely “rotten,” as it should be, but just dreadfully so. I shake my head. I scoop up some koji and in frustration, let it drop through my fingers and plop to the ground. Decomposition gone awry.

I step outside, grab my sake bottle, and twist it open as I sit on my patio chair. I pour a glass and sip. I sigh, thinking about the mess. Another batch for compost. I stare out at the submerged paddy fields in the distance, the green tips peeking out of the surface, waiting to emerge into rice stalks. I just wasted so many of them—numerous rice plants destined for decay.

But no point in brooding. I’ll get back to my 3D graphs and charts again, crunching numbers for the formulas—like the cyclical nature of life, just as another harvest season will come and activity will blossom on the fields, I tell myself. That’s what Ena would say.

THE RHYTHM OF THE COUNTRYSIDE WAS IN CYCLES OF WORK AND GROWTH, AND waiting. Once the seedlings were all in and growing, our family waited. Come fall, we harvested the golden yellow stalks from the drained paddy. Mom made us beat some stalks against bamboo slats while drones next to us zipped through the threshing process. I invented some other faster methods, with gears and pedals, but Mom insisted this was the way for the sake—that we had to at least do some of the work ourselves to keep up the tradition. We milled and steamed the rice and mixed it with koji with our hands. Then we mashed it all and tossed in sake yeast. This was all done over a period of days—no machines, just arms pushing wooden paddles to get the shubo right.

Mom even skipped the adding of lactic acid that kept the unwanted bacteria at bay, saying she wanted it straight up old style, using the air’s natural lactobacillus instead of the Sokujo method.

“Fast is for the impatient,” she said.

She also quoted Thomas Edison at me—genius is 99 percent perspiration and 1 percent inspiration—but she knew that for me genius is 99 percent impatience—and who knows what for the other 1 percent.

I couldn’t really disagree. I wanted things done fast.

She wouldn’t have it. She savored all the steps.

When we were finished making the sake, we streaked each drone with a fingerprint of the liquid, our own family ritual, in addition to hanging a traditional ball of cedar leaves that signified successful sake production.

And after more waiting, for the sake to mature, we took some bottles into our home and clinked cups and sipped under the warmth of the heated kotatsu. My parents only allocated one small ochoko’s worth of sake for me. I would nurse it for the night. While we drank, I harbored rebellious thoughts—dreaming up ways to hasten the fermentation process but keep the savory richness of the alcohol that passed down my throat like fire.

THE WARM TASTE OF YUZU AND SAKE FLOWS DOWN MY THROAT AND I LET OUT A satisfying, “Ahhhh.”

I turn on my holovid and nod at my cousin Aimi. Ever since my wife passed, she has been my trusty taste-tester.

Aimi takes a swirl, letting the aromas fill her mouth. She then gulps, her eyes closed. “Too bitter. Needs something bright.”

“Mint?” I ask.

“Maybe.” She puts it down. She opens her brown eyes wide, taking in all the details of the drink. “Or maybe it’s the yuzu rind oversoaked. And this cloudy one? That’s next?”

“Yeah. Have a cracker first.” She bites, swallows, closes her eyes and sips. I turn off my holovid and sip, too. I don’t want her to see my reaction and get biased.

I put down the sake cup. This was my wife’s favorite tasting cup, with the blue underglaze. Ena was the best at tasting. I could see her now, her piercing brown eyes staring at me as she takes a sip from the cup. She had quite the appetite and love for adventure and gusto in her life. After her judo championships, she would down breaded pork chops and crispy pickled takuan alongside straight sake and some mixed drinks. Even with her athleticism, she had a delicate, discerning palate. She’d gulp sports drinks for the electrolytes but only after diluting them. Sports drink and alcohol companies led her through facility tours, trying to get her face for ads, but she refused, saying it was a conflict of interest with our bar establishment.

She was an eclectic drinker, sampling all kinds of drinks, until she lost her taste buds from the second ANVID respiratory pandemic and then passed away from complications while rehabilitating from the disease. Her lungs had been severely damaged, she had a stroke and problems with memory. It pained me to watch her change. She became weak, barely able to stand, let alone execute any judo throw, and at the end, drank only rice porridge. Sometimes she would nurse a bowl of porridge while watching judo moves, trying to recall technique names. The tubes they put in her for breathing even after removal disturbed her ability to swallow, so it would take her hours.

My parents felt bad for me during her illness, and served as my taste testers for a while, but they were never fond of trying my concoctions, since they thought the old ways were the best.

Aimi took over. At my wife’s holofuneral—virtual because of the pandemic—she heard about my need for a taster and offered. She’s a huge gastronomist.

“Okay, what about that one?” I pointed at the cup she just emptied.

“Pretty good. Nice and dry. Could use a touch of sweetness.”

I mark down her words. I enhance and focus in on her eyes. Sometimes her eyes gravitate to the one she likes best. Ena used to say to watch the eyes for intent. I see Aimi flash a glance at the cup with the “ka” katakana letter written on it. That was the one with the newest koji version.

She returns the vessels to the delivery drone, which packs and sanitizes them and flies off for the next delivery.

“Sure,” she says, wiping her hands on her skirt. “And so, which is the control, and which are the ones with the flash ferment? And what changes have you made?”

“Well, I can’t tell you that.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll just have to wait for the new line to come out at your bar.”

I smile. “Yes, will do. Here to please.” It’s true.

It’s why I opened the bar. All I want is for people to drink sake and be merry. But, the merriment hasn’t been so widespread lately.

MY MOM’S LOOK OF MERRIMENT AT SAVORING ALL THE STEPS OF SAKE-MAKING WAS contagious. Even when I was anxious to get the drones to do all the work, I saw her putting her full attention into all the details. She called it chanto suru, doing things properly, and it was part of ikigai, that which makes life worth living.

I responded that efficiency and alacrity are what make life worth living. Increased and swift performance as ikigai. She just shook her head and handed me the wooden mash paddle. “Go and blend.”

Blend I did. We made the fermenting mash moromi in three stages, adding hatzusoe (more rice, koji, and water), letting it sit as odori so the yeast can make merry, then brought in nakazoe and then tomozoe, all stages of adding rice, koji, and water. Everything was active, lively, and bubbly: starches becoming sugar, yeasts taking this sugar and converting it to alcohol and CO₂.

I had to admit, like my mom, there was part of me that savored the process of doing it “properly.” I enjoyed the sound of the liquids sloshing about as I mixed, my wooden paddle breaking the waves of this little ocean. Yet, even with that small joy, I always thought it could be done faster.

As a symbolic gesture pushed mostly by my mom for the sake of tradition, we handled a portion of the moromi- and sake-making ourselves, filling up the fermented moromi into permeable bags and pressing them using cedar boards. But we also left the bulk of the processing for the stage-specific drones—their incessant arms mixing the moromi, pressing discrete amounts to separate solids and liquids and taking up the resulting sake into tubes, pasteurizing and moving the sake into storage for it to mature. The machines made all sorts of noises, sucking and pounding, dripping and draining. It was all a whole ecosystem there in the sakagura.

I tapped my feet to a different rhythm. I was sure I could speed up the tempo of all the machinery and make the whole process of making sake more convenient while maintaining quality.

USING AIMI’S TASTING NOTES AND THE EVALUATIONS I’VE HIRED A FEW PEOPLE TO run, I reformulate the recipes to enhance quality and convenience. Typically, the traditional sake mixing and brewing process takes about ninety days. I want to bring processing down to a week, and have a dehydrated powder ready for instant sake.

By day, I pass time. I read books, drink, run laps, and do martial arts rolls and falls. I fix and update cleaner and service drones at the gym and the owner pays me a few yen for it alongside a free gym pass. I don’t mind hanging around there. They sterilize everything after every use and people are careful.

I’m so used to being Ena’s uke, her throwing partner, that I miss the feel of the wrestling mat under my skin. It smells like her at the gym. Perspiration (under the sting of antiseptic) and persistence. I’m one of the ones who’ve returned to the gyms, even after the latest epidemic wave of GRAVID that drove them to close for a few weeks.

By night, I run the bar.

By dead of the night, I experiment in the food lab I rent out. Rent’s cheap at this hour. I’ve managed to shorten the production process, freeze-dry the liquid with state-of-the-art equipment, and reconstitute it.

I barely sleep anymore.

IT’S QUIET AT THE BAR, SO I EXPERIMENT. I DUMP A PACKET I CALL “KWIK KOJI” TO make an instant sake. It has zero sugar, but the savory richness of a junmai that has been brewing for months. I combine it with another powder of rice flakes and throw it in water. It fizzes, releasing a sour smell. I throw in a touch of the famous sea salt from Ako with nigari. I label the batch and put it in an everstate fridge, which keeps discrete portions of food and drink at whatever temperatures I set the small cubbies.

I make another and shake in lychee and pineapple for the Sun Lush, to Lila’s order. Lila is a holosocial queen and discusses food for diabetics. I watch in anticipation as she pulls the perspiring glass toward her.

She pulls up her mask, sips, and exhales.

“When will this hit the shelves?” She stares at the drink, shaking it. Her satisfied look is sublime. “It’s so strangely tasty. Like instant ramen, it’s as if formulated to make me crave it.”

“Well, it kind of is. Zero sugar, after all.”

“I can’t believe it. Zero sugar,” she whistles. “I miss this flavor. It reminds me of somewhere tropical, like Okinawa.”

“We have an awamori version in production.”

“I’ll be back for that.” She looks around at the stools around her. “Pretty empty, huh?”

“Nothing new. It gets busier later at night.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth. It’s another slow night, and I expect only a few more customers to straggle in.

She nods and takes another sip. She sinks into her seat, with a dazed but happy look. Her blushed cheeks and closed eyes seem almost blissful. No wonder she has over half a million followers. She has such vivid expressions.

The sake’s rolled out only in my bar, but already it’s gotten some publicity. A few small holocelebs like Lila. She opens an eye and says, “Would be a nice evening experiment at home, a puff of fizz. No chance you’ll be releasing the powder kits to supermarkets soon?”

Since the first epidemic wave of GRAVID, some of these holocelebs keep asking about a commercial release.

“Sorry, not yet.” A cleanerbot rolls like a coin down the bar, spritzing. I collect her empty cup and chuck it in the sanitizer.

I guard the insta-sake production method with layers of security. I’ve already gotten numerous calls from investors interested in taking a share of the brand. I’ve always turned them down. I’ve also turned down requests to send the powder over as samples. Competitors haven’t had a chance to try reverse engineering since it’s only available at my bar.

When she leaves, promising to return soon, I nod. These celebrities are always looking for new experiences, so I have to keep up with new drinks. Despite being busy with my experiments, admittedly, business isn’t great. A few of the regulars have returned, but there’s still a sense of caution in the air.

At the end of the night I tally up sales, and I groan. At this rate, the bar will go under.

I need to get the numbers up.

I CALL UP AIMI LATER THAT NIGHT AND TELL HER ABOUT THE CUSTOMER COUNT.

“You’re going to go bankrupt,” she says. She’s in the midst of doing stretches, about to teach her cycling class.

“Thanks for the frankness. I can see that.”

Aimi purses her lips, the 3D filter lipstick bobs into place as an overlay a split-second behind, as she puts on sweat wristbands. “Y’know, it’s too bad. Because people want to drink. They miss the bar experience. MyPub Meal Kits don’t cut it. They’re just not ready to do the crowd thing. Everyone’s hurting.”

I know. I’m hurting. I miss Ena.

“I have my class in three minutes so I have to go, but if there was only a way you could have it be holo. I mean, I know you can’t, since it’s a drink. You can’t taste on the holo. But, if only you could bring the bar experience to them. The quarantine parties are never satisfying because they don’t get the full bar experience. They don’t get the skilled bartender crafting house cocktails. Omotenashi. That hospitality factor that makes the customer feel like a customer. I know my students could use a good drink together served right to them after their spin.”

“Especially after you yelling at them.”

“Encouraging,” she says, laughing. “I don’t yell. I encourage.”

I join in on the laugh as she logs out.

MY LAUGH FALTERS, AS I THINK ABOUT WHAT SHE SAID. THE QUARANTINI PARTIES don’t have new expert drinks coming in. Sure, there are alcohol delivery kits, but people complain that the limes are warm and the mint leaves wilted. Plus, the last thing they want to do is to serve themselves—a part of the fun is watching skilled hands mix it, pour it, and bring it right to them. Omotenashi: great service that makes you feel pampered. That’s what’s lacking.

For a while, the situation on the ground had seemed hopeful. People left the MyPub Meal Kits behind. They were coming to bars again. The elastic silicone sipper made by a local university engineering department looked like it could work. I had participated in the effort by bringing the department drinks for the research and later using our bar as an in situ lab. We had a bit of a local flourish of social interaction, with research participants gathering, placing elastic silicone filters over their mouths and in their noses, cradled by their lips with adhesive and with tiny hooks that latched onto nostril hairs and walls. These inserts had a small device that filtered air and we tried the ones that had fittings and latches to position straws right into them, keeping liquids coming in and viruses out. So the young human subjects could drink and chat, the latch catching as you pulled the straw out so the filter cut-out would move back into place.

It seemed to work with mixed results until a few accidental swallows and choking incidents eroded trust in the technology. Besides the adhesives losing stickiness, people found the masks uncomfortable. They were constantly readjusting and removing them. There were also cases where the epidemic spread despite proper use of the coverings, suggesting the synthetic fibers for the silicone filters weren’t as effective as they thought. It was a mess, and distributors had to recall the devices soon after rolling them out. Hopeful bar owners grumbled and I was distraught.

We went through COVID-19 and -22 when I was young, and were successful with vaccines at each iteration but it took a while. Then came ANVID-33 and -36 and now the GRAVID series. People developed strategies for coping. In the engineering and commerce world, they moved up the holo tech faster than imagined and drone delivery speeds took off.

People also tried Portable Personal Bubbles (PPBs), but that was a celeb fad that failed miserably. They were incredibly expensive and stiff. The wearers couldn’t move far beyond their power source since the battery drained fast. Those who could afford to rent them complained they were hard to manipulate and hot as hell. The batteries kept dying. Celebs said they felt like they were swallowed up by a hippo, moving like molasses, and that they’d prefer to interact through holoscreens rather than wrapped in plastic casing. Some even panicked, having trouble breathing in them.

With PPBs put to rest, GRAVID-37 took a huge toll on the population. Those infected got unexpected rashes as well as respiratory issues and chronic fatigue, and there was no viable solution in sight. Pharmaceutical companies and experts despaired. A viable vaccine was remarkably difficult to achieve and it took a few years.

We’re still waiting for a vaccine for the latest bug, GRAVID-38, and we’re impatient. I, perhaps, am one of the most.

I fiddle with a double jigger, rolling it between my fingers as I think about possibilities, ways forward—quick, safe, and easy measures for people to take to get a drink served.

I look at my jigger, thinking of measuring spirits and shaking drinks as customers look on in rapt anticipation.

Omotenashi.

What if I brought the bar experience to them?

I GATHER PARTS FROM BROKEN CLEANERBOTS AND SERVICE DRONES AND SOME old machines at the gym. I scavenge more parts from a junkyard nearby. I remember my cleanerbot, the old one from my parent’s house in the countryside, that would bump into things. It had a shaking mechanism to deploy these old aerosol cleaners they sold at the mart. They don’t sell the aerosol cans anymore because of environmental regulations, but our bot still had that shake programmed in. It was a bit outdated.

I give my parents a holocall. It takes them a while before they pick up. They don’t like using these things. Mom picks up as she’s fixing up an ikebana work of art, twisting a sakura branch to the perfect angle, part of her activities in attempting to achieve ikigai. “Just come over and get the antiquated thing. It’s still here. It’s next to a load of your old clothes, chemistry sets, and junk. I don’t think it works though. Just didn’t have the heart to throw it away since I knew you liked it.”

“Liked it! That thing always malfunctioned!”

“Yeah, but didn’t you say you liked the sounds it made?”

Mom has a good memory. I did. The phantom sounds of its gurgling pentatonic melody that played as it shook fill my ears. I’d forgotten about that.

She snaps a branch in half and chucks it behind her. The newest cleanerbot snatches it up. “I’ll send it over. And your old chemistry sets. They’re sitting around here, gathering dust.”

I protest about saving the delivery drone extra work, but she logs out. Oh well, I’ll just throw out the chem sets when they arrive.

After the call, I sketch out designs and order more parts from the hardware holostore, my mind racing.

WHEN MY OLD CLEANERBOT ARRIVES, I CHARGE IT UP. AS THE STRANGE MELODY drones on, in my mind I see the flowing waves of verdant blades of rice in the paddies, and the heady smell of fermentation in our old shed. I live in that nostalgic space for a moment before I go into plan-execution mode. I say goodbye to our old family cleanerbot and hello to my new tech.

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 my 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 business 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.

I craft a powder, a chaser made with the sweet and tart flavors of takuan and infused with electrolytes. It would complement a sake with a strong rice aroma and a deep umami, one that goes well with Ena’s favorite breaded pork dish.

“This is for you, Ena, for pushing me to forge on.”

I do a quick reprogram of a SKIM-2 and it serves out the drinks, tinkling its melody as it pours them into dried squid cups: the sake, pure, without adulteration, followed by the electrolyte chaser. I take a sip. The concoction’s not perfect yet, but it would be great for an athlete. Chasing away dehydration and fatigue.

I think of all the people we’ve helped with the vaccine. I think of how they won’t have to deal with what Ena had to deal with. What we had to deal with together. The anxiety and dread as the disease took its toll. I think about all the good times with Ena and my parents, the small family we cobbled together.

SKIM-2 serves another round of drinks.

I peer at the butsudan, at the picture of Ena’s smiling face next to the memorial tablet. I place an offering of satsuma and steaming rice. For good measure, I position by her photo SKIM-2’s output of a small cup of rich junmai sake. Next to that, I set down the electrolyte chaser it shook and poured.

You’re my first customer, Ena. I’ll serve this at my bar next.

I imagine her smile after practice, sweaty but vivacious at the bar counter, keeping me company as I finish work. She recounts judo moves as she puts me in a playful choke and plants a kiss on my cheek, her other hand reaching for a quenching cup of sake.

I can’t help but think that’s ikigai. Getting together with your loved ones, sharing a drink.

And for a moment, I forget about speed or execution and the utter convenience of kwik koji—it’s about being together for it all and savoring each instance once there.

I dip a finger in sake. I caress her cheek, and holding my finger there for what seems like an eternity, smearing the glass of the frame with a fingerprint of my home-brewed concoction, knowing she’d be happy for me.

I wish I could say the smile in her photo gets wider.

I smile back and get ready for tomorrow, just another day at the bar.