Year's Best Scifi 3 Part 12

It was the cobblestones under his feet.

It was April in Paris and Ken678 was walking down the boulevard. Mary97 was beside him. She was wearing a low-cut, sleeveless peasant blouse and a long, full skirt.

Ken was terrified. Where was the Window? Where was the Windowless room?

he asked.

Mary said. Ken tried to stop walking, but he couldn't. he said. He tried to close his eyes to avoid panic, but he couldn't.

Mary just smiled the Mary smile and they walked along the boulevard, under the blooming chestnut trees. They pa.s.sed a cafe, they turned a corner; they pa.s.sed another cafe, turned another corner. It was always the same. The same trees, thesame cafe, the same cobblestones. The carriages and stick figures in the distance never got any closer.

Mary said.

They pa.s.sed another cafe. This time Mary97 turned in, and Ken was sitting across from her at a small sidewalk table.

she said. She was still smiling that Mary smile. The table was heart-shaped, like the table in the Windowless room. Ken leaned across it but still couldn't see down her blouse.

Mary said. Ken said. Mary said, opening the menu.

<-are blinking="" like="" crazy,=""> he finished because it was already in his buffer.

A waiter appeared. He wore a white shirt and black pants. Ken tried to look at his face, but he didn't exactly have one. There were only three items on the menu: WALK.

ROOM.

HOME.

Mary pointed at ROOM, and before she had closed the menu they were in a wedge-shaped attic room with French doors, sitting on the edge of a bed. Now Ken could see down Mary97's blouse. In fact he could see his two hands reach out and pull it down, uncovering her two plump, perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her nipples were as big and as brown as cookies. Through the French doors Ken could see the Eiffel Tower and the boulevard.

he said as she helped him pull up her skirt. Smiling that Mary smile, she lay back with her blouse and skirt both bunched around her waist. Ken heard a familiar clippety-clop from the boulevard below as Mary spread her plump, perfect thighs wide.

he said.

Her red-tipped fingers pulled her little French underpants to one side and He kissed her sweet red mouth. he said.

Her red-tipped fingers pulled her little French underpants to one side and He kissed her sweet red cookie mouth. he said.A gendarme's whistle blew and they were back at the sidewalk cafe. The menu was closed on the heart-shaped table. Mary asked. Ken said. Mary shrugged. Ken didn't know she could shrug. She was holding a gla.s.s of green liquid.

Ken opened the menu and the faceless waiter appeared.

There were three items on the menu. Before Mary could point, Ken pointed at HOME, and the table and the waiter were gone. He and Mary97 were in the Windowless room, and the cards were facedown except for the ten of diamonds.

Mary said.

Ken started, but he never got to finish. His Folder was blinking, waitstate interrupt, and he was gone.

Ken678 insisted a few cycles later when he joined Mary97 in their usual spot, at the Window in the Corridor between Copy and Verify. She smiled that Mary smile.

Ken said. Mary97 said. Mary said, and he did. And she did.

And he did and she did and they did. He met her three times that week and three times the next week, every spare moment, it seemed. The cobblestones and the cafes still made Ken678 nervous, but he loved the wedge-shaped attic room. He loved Mary's nipples as big and as brown as cookies; loved her blouse and skirt bunched around her waist as she lay on her back with her plump, perfect thighs spread wide; loved the dippety-clop and her red-tipped fingers and her little French underpants pulled to one side; loved her.

It was, after all, a love affair.

The problem was, Mary97 never wanted to go back to Microserf Office 6.9.

After the wedge-shaped room she wanted to walk on the boulevard under the blooming chestnut trees, or sit in a cafe watching the stick figures get in and out ofcarriages in the distance.

she would say, swirling the green liquid in her gla.s.s.

Ken would say. Mary would always say.

Ken678 had always hated weekends because he missed the warm electron buzz of Microserf Office 6.9, but now he missed it during the week as well. If he wanted to be with Mary97 (and he did, he did!) it meant April in Paris. Ken missed "their"

Window in the Corridor between Copy and Verify. He missed the busy streaming icons and the Folders bulging with files and blinking with Calls and Tasks. He missed the red bra.s.siere.

Ken asked late one week He was turning over just the queen.

Mary answered. She was already turning over the ace.

Ken678 said finally. It was April in Paris, as usual. He was walking with Mary97 along the boulevard, under the blooming chestnut trees.

she asked. She turned a corner, then another.

he said. - she said as she turned into a cafe.

he said. Mary said.

<-i miss="" the="" office,=""> Ken finished because it was already in his buffer.

Mary97 shrugged. She swirled the green liquid in her gla.s.s. It was thick as syrup; it clung to the sides of the gla.s.s. Ken had the feeling she was looking through him instead of at him. He tried to see down her peasant blouse but couldn't.

Mary said.

Ken said. He reached for the menu.

Mary pulled it away. Ken said.

Mary shrugged. she said.

Ken tried to look around. He could look in only one direction, towardthe boulevard.

Mary said. She took another drink of the green liquid and opened the menu. Ken was confused. Had she been drinking it all along?

And why were there four items on the menu?

Ken suggested.

But the waiter had already appeared; he, at least, was still the same.

Mary said, and Ken pointed at HOME. Mary was pointing at the new item on the menu: STAY.

That weekend was the longest of Ken678's life. As soon as the week restarted, he hurried to the Corridor between Copy and Verify, hoping against hope. But there was no Window open and, of course, no Mary97.

He looked for her between Calls and Tasks, checking every queue, every Corridor. Finally, toward the middle of the week, he went to the Windowless room off the Browser by himself, for the first time.

Mary97's Folder was gone. The cards on the tiny, heart-shaped table were facedown, except the ten of diamonds.

He turned up the queen of hearts, but nothing happened. He wasn't surprised.

He turned up the ace of spades and felt the cobblestones under his feet. It was April in Paris. The chestnuts were in bloom, but Ken678 felt no joy. Only a sort of thick sorrow.

He turned into the first cafe and there she was, sitting at the heart-shaped table.

she said.

Ken said. Mary shrugged. Ken asked.

Mary said. < p="">

I like it here.> Mary pushed the gla.s.s of green liquid toward him. she said.

Ken didn't answer. He was afraid if he did he would start to cry, even though Kens can't cry.

Mary97 said. She even smiled her Mary smile. She took another sip and opened the menu. The waiter appeared, and she pointed to ROOM, and Ken knew somehow that this was to be the last time.

In the wedge-shaped attic room, he could see down Mary's blouse perfectly.Then his hands were cupping her plump, perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s for the last time. Through the French doors he could see the Eiffel Tower and the boulevard. he said, and she lay back with her blouse and skirt both bunched around her waist, and he knew somehow it was the last time. He heard a familiar clippety-clop from the boulevard as she spread her perfect thighs and said

He kissed her sweet red cookie mouth. he said. She pulled her little French underpants to one side and he knew somehow it was the last time.

he said.

It was the last time.

A gendarme's whistle blew and they were back at the sidewalk cafe. The menu was closed on the heart-shaped table.

What a sad joke she is making, Ken678 thought. He tried to smile even though Kens can't smile.

Mary said. She took another drink of the green liquid. She swirled it jauntily. No matter how much she drank there was always plenty left.

Ken said. she said.

Mary97 opened the menu. The waiter came and Ken pointed to HOME.

Ken678 spent the next two weeks working like crazy. He was all over Microserf Office 6.9. As soon as his Folder blinked he was off, on Call, triple Tasking, burning up the Corridors. He avoided the Corridor between Copy and Verify, though, just as he avoided the Browser. He almost paused at an open Window once. But he didn't want to look at April in Paris. It was too lonely without Mary.

Four weeks pa.s.sed before Ken678 went back to the Windowless room in the Browser. He dreaded seeing the cards on the heart-shaped table. But the cards were gone. Even the table was gone. Ken saw the scuff marks along the wall, and he realized that the Optimizer had been through. The room had been erased again and was being overwritten.

When he left the room he was no longer lonely. He was accompanied by a great sorrow.

The next week he went by the room again and found it filled with empty Folders.

Perhaps one of them was Mary97's. Now that the Easter Egg was gone, Ken678 no longer felt guilty about not going to see Mary97. He was free to love Microserf Office 6.9 again, free to enjoy the soft electron buzz, the busy streaming icons and the long, silent queues. But at least once a week he stops by the Corridor betweenCopy and Verify and opens the Window. You might find him there even now, looking out into April in Paris. The chestnuts are in bloom, the cobblestones shine, the carriages are letting off stick figures in the distance. The cafes are almost empty.

A lone figure sits at a tiny table, a figure that might be her.

They say you never get over-your first love. Then Mary97 must have been my first love, Ken678 likes to think. He has no interest in getting over her. He loves to remember her red fingernails, her soft Mary voice and her Mary smile, her nipples as big and as brown as cookies, her little French underpants pulled to one side-her.

The figure in the cafe must be Mary97. Ken678 hopes so. He hopes she is OK in April in Paris. He hopes she is as happy as she once made, is still making, him. He hopes she is as wonderfully sad.

But look: His Folder is blinking like crazy, a waitstate interrupt, and it's time to go.

Chapter 10 - Itsy Bitsy Spider by James Patrick.

Kelly

James Patrick Kelly has been in each volume of this year's best series to date, and for good reason. Although not prolific, he is building one of the most impressive bodies of short fiction in SF in this part of the decade, at the rate of a couple or three good stories a year. This year, his story collection, Think Like a Dinosaur, was the first hardcover release of an ambitious new publisher, Golden Gryphon, and this story was published in Asimov's. There were several SF stories this year about retired and infirm family members. I suppose it is that another generation of SF writers is arriving at middle age and seeing in the declining health of their parents'

generation a wintry prognostication for the future, something to be got around in some science fictional way without violating the need for empathy, or indeed logic. It is an easy subject to get depressed about but Kelly avoided that, so I liked this one best.

When I found out that my father was still alive after all these years and living at Strawberry Fields, I thought he'd gotten just what he deserved. Retroburbs are where the old, scared people go to hide. I'd always pictured the people in them as deranged losers. Visiting some fantasy world like the disneys or Carlucci's Carthage is one thing, moving to one is another. Sure, 2038 is messy, but it's a h.e.l.l of a lot better than nineteen-sixty-whatever.

Now that I'd arrived at 144 Bluejay Way, I realized that the place was worse than I had imagined. Strawberry Fields was pretending to be some long-lost suburb of the late twentieth century, except that it had the sterile monotony of cheap VR. It wasclean, all right, and neat, but it was everywhere the same. And the scale was wrong.

The lots were squeezed together and all the houses had shrunk-like the dreams of their owners. They were about the size of a one-car garage, modular units tarted up at the factory to look like ranches, with old double-hung storm windows and hardened siding of harvest gold, barn red, forest green. Of course, there were no real garages; faux Mustangs and VW buses cruised the quiet streets. Their carbrains were listening for a summons from Barbara Chesley next door at 142, or the Goltzes across the street, who might be headed to Penny Lanes to bowl a few frames, or the hospital to die.

There was a beach chair with blue nylon webbing on the front stoop of 144 Bluejay Way. A brick walk led to it, dividing two patches of carpet moss, green as a dream. There were names and addresses printed in huge lightstick letters on all the doors in the neighborhood; no doubt many Strawberry Fielders were easily confused. The owner of this one was Peter Fancy. He had been born Peter Fanelli, but had legally taken his stage name not long after his first success as Prince Hal in Henry IV Part 1. I was a Fancy too; the name was one of the few things of my father's I had kept.

I stopped at the door and let it look me over. "You're Jen," it said.

"Yes." I waited in vain for it to open or to say something else. "I'd like to see Mr.