Year's Best SF 3

by David G. Hartwell

  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.

 

 

  she asked, smiling that Mary smile.

  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.

 

 

  Ken678 calculated in his head. How old did that make Mary—55? 60? It didn't matter. All icons are young, and all females are beautiful.

  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 cafés, the blooming chestnut trees. Mary loved April in Paris. 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 documents up the long stairway from Archives to Active.

  he said.

  Mary said.

  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 passed 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.

  “Sure,> Ken said. he said.

  she said.

  They met in the Browser three times that week. Three times Ken678 heard the horse, three times he watched the red lace brassiere 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 cafés were empty. A few stick figures in the distance were getting in and out of carriages.

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

  said Mary.

  When they met a few cycles later in the Windowless room off the Browser, Mary put her red-fingernailed hand on the third card and said,

  Ken didn't answer. He felt a sudden chill.

  she said.

  Ken said, though it was a lie.

  The third card was the ace of spades. As soon as it was turned up, Krn know somthing was wrong.

  Something felt different.

  It was the cobblestones under his feet.

  It was Aprill in Paris and Ken678 was walking down the boulevard. Mary was beside him. She was wearing a lowcut, 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 passed a café, they turned a corner; they passed another café turned another corner. It was always the same. The same trees, the same café, the same cobblestones. The carriages and stick figures in the distance never got any closer.

  Mary said.

  She looked different somehow. Maybe it was the outfit. Her peasant blouse was cut very low. Ken tried to look down it but coundn't.

  They passed another café. This time Mary97 turned in, and Ken was sitting across from her at a small sidewalk table.

  she said. She was still 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 breasts. 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 belows as Mary spread her plump, perfect thighs wide.

  she said. Her red-tipped fingers pulled her little French underpants to one side and

  He kissed her sweet mouth. 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 café. The menu was closed on the heart-shaped table. Mary asked.

  Ken said.

 
  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.

  Ken 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 cafés 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 clippety-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 café watching the stick figures get in and out of carriages in the distance.

  she would say, swirling the green liquid in her glass.

  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 brassiere.

  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 café.

  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 glass. It was thick as syrup; it clung to the sides of the glass. Ken had the feeling she was looking through him instead of at him. He tried to see down her peasant blouse but couldn't.