Year's Best Scifi 3 Part 11

"What?"

He glanced nervously toward the exit, but the bandits had moved Okwera and Iganga out of sight. "I've paid them to do this. It's the only way. But say the word now and I'll give them the signal, and they won't touch the ring."

I stared at him, waves of numbness sweeping over my skin as I realized exactly what he was saying.

"You could have taken it off under anesthetic."

He shook his head impatiently. "It's sending data back to HealthGuard all the time: cortisol, adrenaline, endorphins, prostaglandins. They'll have a record of your stress levels, fear, pain... if we took it off under anesthetic, they'd know you'd given it away freely. This way, it'll look like a random theft. And your insurance company will give you a new one."

His logic was impeccable; I had no reply. I might have started protesting about insurance fraud, but that was all in the future, a separate matter entirely. The choice, here and now, was whether or not I let him have the ring by the only method that wouldn't raise suspicion.

One of the bandits was back, looking impatient. Masika asked plainly, "Do I call it off? I need an answer." I turned to him, on the verge of ranting that he'd willfully misunderstood me, abused my generous offer to help him, and put all our lives in danger.

It would have been so much bulls.h.i.t, though. He hadn't misunderstood me. All he'd done was taken me at my word.

I said, "Don't call it off."

The bandits lined us up beside the truck, and had us empty our pockets into asack. Then they started taking watches and jewelry. Okwera couldn't get his wedding ring off, but stood motionless and scowling while one of the bandits applied more force. I wondered if I'd need a prosthesis, if I'd still be able to do surgery, but as the bandit approached me I felt a strange rush of confidence.

I held out my hand and looked up into the sky. I knew that anything could be healed, once it was understood.

Chapter 9 - An Office Romance By Terry Bisson.

Terry Bisson just keeps writing his own way and like no one else. Last year it was virtual reality, this year it is the humdrum world of office computers, transformed.

Bisson's most impressive achievement this year, though, was not in short fiction but was the completion of Walter M. Miller's second novel, Saint Liebowitz and the Wild Horse Woman, set in the same future as his cla.s.sic A Canticle for Leibowitz.

Miller found himself unable to complete the book after decades of work, and agreed, before his death, to have Bisson complete it. And Bisson did so with marvelous fidelity. One should note the satiric irony in Miller, so integral a part of his serious work, is the same in kind, though not in tone, as Bisson's. Miller said anyone with a sense of humor ought to be able to finish his book. Bisson certainly qualifies. This story appeared in Playboy. Computer nerds will love it. If you have never used a computer, worked in an office, or heard of Microsoft, you may have to have the humor explained.

The First time Ken678 saw Mary97, he was in Munic.i.p.al Real Estate, queued for a pickup for Closings. She stood two s.p.a.ces in front of him: blue skirt, orange tie, slightly convex white blouse, like every other female icon. He didn't know she was a Mary; he couldn't see which face she had. But she held her Folder in both hands, as old-timers often did, and when the queue scrolled forward he saw her fingernails.

They were red.

Just then the queue flickered and scrolled again, and she was gone. Ken was intrigued, but he promptly forgot about her. It was a busy time of year, and he was running like crazy from Call to Task. Later that week he saw her again, paused at an open Window in the Corridor between Copy and Send. He slowed as he pa.s.sed her, by turning his Folder sideways- a trick he had learned. There were those red fingernails again. It was curious.

Fingernails were not on the Option Menu.

Red was not on the Color Menu, either.

Ken used the weekend to visit his mother at the Home. It was her birthday or anniversary or something like that. Ken hated weekends. He had grown used to hisKen face and felt uncomfortable without it. He hated his old name, which his mother insisted on calling him. He hated how grim and terrifying things were outside. To avoid panic he closed his eyes and hummed-out here, he could do both-trying to simulate the peaceful hum of the Office.

But there is no subst.i.tute for the real thing, and Ken didn't relax until the week restarted and he was back inside. He loved the soft electron buzz of the search engines, the busy streaming icons, the dull b.u.t.ter shine of the Corridors, the shimmering Windows with their relaxing scenes of the exvi-ronment. He loved his life and he loved his work.

That was the week he met Mary-or rather, she met him.

Ken678 had just retrieved a Folder of doc.u.ments from Search and was taking it to Print. He could see by the blur of icons ahead that there was going to be a long queue at the Bus leaving Commercial, so he paused in the Corridor; waitstates were encouraged in high traffic zones.

He opened a Window by resting his Folder on the sill. There was no air, of course, but there was a nice view. The scene was the same in every Window in Microserf Office 6.9: cobblestones and quiet cafes and chestnut trees in bloom.

April in Paris.

Ken heard a voice.

he said, confused. Two icons couldn't open the same Window, and yet there she was beside him. Red fingernails and all.

<-did you="" do="" that?=""> he finished because it was in his buffer. She had the Mary face, which, it so happened, was his favorite. And the red fingernails.

she said.

Ken said. she said. Ken showed her his Folder trick even though she seemed to know it already.

he asked.

she said. She held up a hand with red fingernails. Ken said.

Ken tried to think of an answer, but he was too slow. Her Folder was blinking, a waitstate interrupt, and she was gone.

A few cycles later in the week he saw her again, paused at an open Window in the Corridor between Copy and Verify. He slid his Folder over hers, flush right, and he was standing beside her, looking out into April in Paris.

she said.

he said. Then he said what he had been rehearsing over and over: she said, smiling the Mary smile.

Ken678 wished for the first time that the Ken face had a smile. His Folder was flickering, but he didn't want to leave yet. he asked again.

she said. She was exaggerating, of course, but in a sense it was true.

She told Ken she had been at City Hall when Microserf Office 6.9 was installed.

< p="">

Ken had never had a friend before, in or out of the Office. Much less a girlfriend.

He found himself hurrying his Calls and Tasks so he could cruise the Corridors looking for Mary97. He could usually find her at an open Window, gazing at the cobblestones and the little cafes, the blooming chestnut trees. Mary loved April inParis. she said. Ken said. But in fact he couldn't. He didn't like to imagine things. He preferred real life, or at least Microserf Office 6.9. He loved standing at the Window beside her, listening to her soft Mary voice, answering in his deep Ken voice.

she asked. Ken told her he had been hired as a temp, transporting scanned-in midcentury doc.u.ments up the long stairway from Archives to Active.

he said.

None of the regular Office workers spoke to us, or even noticed us. We worked 14-, 15-cycle days.>

Ken admitted. And he told her how wonderful and strange it had felt, at first, to be an icon; to see himself as he walked around, as if he were both inside and outside his own body.

he said.

Mary said. And she smiled that Mary smile.

Several weeks pa.s.sed before Ken got up the courage to make what he thought of as "his move."

They were at the Window where he had first spoken with her, in the Corridor between Copy and Verify. Her hand was resting on the sill, red fingernails shimmering, and he put his hand exactly over it. Even though he couldn't actually feel it, it felt good.

He was afraid she would move her hand, but instead she smiled that Mary smile and said, he said.

She moved her fingers under his. It almost tingled. The Browser was a circular connector with no Windows. Ken met Mary at Select All and followed her toward Insert, where the doors got smaller and closer together.

she asked.

Ken said. Mary said.

<-found and="" cleared="" from="" commercial="" software="" by="" background="" deb.u.g.g.e.rs="" and="" optimizers.=""> Ken finished because it was already in his buffer.

she said. Mary97 led him into a small Windowless room. There was nothing in it but a tiny, heart-shaped table.

Mary said. On the table were three playing cards. Two were facedown and one was faceup: the ten of diamonds.

Without waiting for Ken's answer, Mary turned the ten of diamonds facedown. Her fingernails were no longer red.

she said.

Ken backed away.

< p="">

Go ahead!> Reluctantly, Ken turned up the ten of diamonds.

Mary's fingernails were red again. Nothing happened to his own.

Mary said.

Ken said, relaxing a little.

Mary said. Mary turned up the second card. It was the queen of hearts. As soon as she turned it up, Ken heard a clippety-clop, and a Window opened in the Windowless room.

In the Window it was April in Paris.

Ken saw a gray horse coming straight down the center of the boulevard. It wore no harness, but its tail and mane were bobbed. Its enormous red p.e.n.i.s was almost dragging the cobblestones.

Mary97 said. She was standing beside Ken at the Window. Her convex white blouse and orange tie both were gone. She was wearing a red lace bra.s.siere. The sheer cups were full. The narrow straps were taut. The tops of her plump b.r.e.a.s.t.s were round and bright as moons.

Ken678 couldn't move or speak. It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

Mary's hands were behind her back, unfastening her bra.s.siere. There! But just as the cups started to fall away from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a whistle blew.

The horse had stopped in the middle of the boulevard. A gendarme was runningtoward it, waving a stick.

The Window closed. Mary97 was standing at the table, wearing her convex white blouse and orange tie again. Only the ten of diamonds was faceup.

Ken said. He had wanted to see her nipples.

Mary said.

Ken found her a couple cycles later at their usual meeting place, at the open Window in the Corridor between Copy and Verify.

he said.

he said, and the familiar words were almost as good as a smile.

* * *

Ken678 followed Mary97 to the Browser twice more that week. Each time was the same; each time was perfect. As soon as Mary turned over the queen of hearts, Ken heard a clip-pety-clop. A Window opened in the Windowless room and there was the horse again, coming down the boulevard, its enormous p.e.n.i.s almost dragging the cobblestones. Mary97's ripe, round, perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s were spilling over the top of her red lace bra.s.siere as she said, and reached behind her back, unfastening- Unfastening her bra! And just as the cups started to fall away, just as Ken678 was about to see her nipples, a gendarme's whistle blew and Mary97 was wearing the white blouse again and the orange tie. The Window was closed, the queen of hearts facedown.

Mary said, Ken replied.

As he left for the weekend, Ken678 scanned the crowd of office regulars filing down the long steps of City Hall. Which woman was Mary97? There was, of course, no way of knowing. They were all ages, all nationalities, but they all looked the same with their blank stares, neural-interface gold earrings, and mesh marks from their net gloves.

The weekend seemed to last forever. As soon as the week restarted, Ken raced through his Calls and Tasks, then cruised the Corridors until he found Mary at "their" spot, the open Window between Copy and Verify. she said, looking out into April in Paris.

said Ken impatiently. He was thinking of her hands behind her back, unfastening.

she asked, and he could tell she was teasing.

she said.

They met in the Browser three times that week. Three times Ken678 heard the horse, three times he watched the red lace bra.s.siere falling away, falling away. That week was the closest to happiness he would ever come.

Mary97 asked. They were standing at the Window between Copy and Verify. A new week had barely restarted.

In April in Paris the chestnuts were in bloom above the cobblestones. The cafes were empty. A few stick figures in the distance were getting in and out of carriages.

Ken678 said, though it wasn't true. He didn't like to wonder.