PAWN TO INFINITY

by Edited by Fred

Chokki quickly averted his eyes, allowing no movement or gesture to betray his discomfort. "Certainly," said the small Line Nippon, stiffly. "As you wish."

  Though Kagami's grandfather had been a Once American in the days of the Union, no one would dare call Kagami an American now—not, at least, without the offering of swords. Yet the fact that Kagami was only a Nipponese by circumstance—a sansei, third generation citizen of the Consolidat—was evident in his desire to rush through formal ceremony. The Line Nippon—of a respected Nipponese ancestry—held the sansei in low esteem for this reason.

  Ki niyotte uo o ntotomu: you ask an elm tree for pears.

  This was Kagami's heritage; perhaps, in time, he would outgrow this natural impatience.

  "It is my southern wall," said Kagami.

  "A difficulty?"

  "No. Without doubt there is no problem with the manufacture. Neobiotix has done a splendid job with my home. I am most pleased."

  "Honored," said Chokki. Kagami poured three deciliters of Mogen David Imperial Sake into an earthenware cup and offered it to Chokki. "Domo arigato."

  "Most welcome. Perhaps what I need is a strategy."

  "Your wall is weak then?" Chokki sipped gingerly from the cup.

  "Near to crumble."

  Chokki hesitated for a moment. "And of strategy. Your neighbor has also a consultant?"

  "Orgosynthetix Corporation. We have, of course, agreed to unilateral aid." Kagami turned to fill his own cup with sake, hoping to disguise his irritation. Were Kagami not a sansei, he knew, Chokki would never have offered such an impertinent inquiry. Had he implied that Kagami might cheat?—that he might seek tactical advice illicitly? Both Kagami and his neighbor, Tonari Ze, had agreed upon allowing professional consultation; Kagami's word need not have been questioned.

  Kagami felt the strain of two echelons meeting, the friction of separate and distinct social strata grating as they touched. He smothered the sparks in politic.

  "Very fine. Show me then your southern wall." Shyly, Kagami led the Neobiotix field representative through the livingroom and into the tea-room. The Tō-screen parted and Kagami felt embarrassment at the disarray. "Oya!"

  "Indeed. As you see, the southern wall is nearly surrounded."

  Kagami felt shame at the loss of face. Very few sansei could afford a neobiotic home, and fewer actually entered in competition. It was said that the ability to play Go—the ancient game of territorial strategy upon which neobiotic play was based—had its roots in ancestry, and though no prohibitions stood between a sansei and the game, it was generally agreed that the Line Nippon made the best player. Pitting one's home against another's, using true territory and not a symbolic representation was thought to be a delicate art, and not one to be toyed with lightly.

  Chokki inspected the tea room carefully. The tea room wall—built of a flux-organism called käbe, a chromoplastic which hardened at some points and undulated at others—was badly buckled. The ceiling sagged under the considerable strain of the damaged wall, and the käbe had lost a great deal of its translucency. Without light, the synthetic organism would grow increasingly weaker, unable to repair itself photosynthetically, and the architectural stress would also increase until the tea room fell, or Kagami surrendered.

  This, of course, was Ze's strategy; once Ze's northern diningroom wall had surrounded the tea-room and blocked the ultraviolet, he would need only to wait patiently for Kagami's defenses to fall.

  Patience was one thing Tonari Ze had plenty of.

  "An inventive offensive. Orgosynthetix is a respectable firm," said Chokki, examining the käbe-wall with an expert touch. "Or perhaps Ze san is an inventive fellow himself."

  Few words. Much said. Samuel Kagami knew that he had attacked foolishly. A quick offensive with which he hoped to gain an advantage in the opening play, had failed, and he found that he had concentrated too much of the house's energy on a single point. He had ignored Ze's threats on many borders, and now those threats had matured and Kagami found himself trapped.

  The tea room groaned.

  "An honored opponent. What kind of defensive strategy do you recommend to maintain the tea room?"

  Chokki laughed mildly. "No, I'm afraid not, Kagami san. One may only extend folly in this way. Incorporate the loss."

  "Withdraw?"

  "Brute force cannot rise. A fat defense is no answer. Notice how lean is his attacking line." Kagami examined the wall which protruded through the tea room käbe in four spots. Indeed, saber thin. "There is no shame in withdrawal." Chokki once again looked away.

  Kagami studied the well-mannered Line Nippon. What did this one know of shame? Kagami's grandfather, Charles Carmody, had been a wealthy man and had left Kagami a modest legacy. Thus, Kagami moved in circles usually closed to a sansei, played with the luxurious toys of a Line Nippon, and lived as well as many corporate functionaries.

  Yet, there were restrictions. Unwritten, politely applied.

  Carmody had been killed during the Incorporation. He had called it the Invasion, but politic declared that Kagami refrain from using such terms. As economic crises peaked the Union had been forced to begin auctioning their last resource: Land. Allies were invited to extend their holdings, and the Nipponese, for whom landscape was the only limiting factor to further prosperity, heartily accepted.

  Purchasing land in strategic areas they established base colonies on the continent, immigrating in droves. And though they held less than fifteen percent of the actual land area in Once America, their ability to use less—more resourcefully—had quickly insured that their population would exceed that of the Union. Relocation of Union citizens out of Nipponese-occupied territory had been subsidized and expensive, and fiscal ruin had been nothing but forestalled.

  It was war that killed Charles Carmody.

  There had been no terror jets, no thermonuclear war cries, no multimegaton verbosities. No shouting. The gentleman hordes of Nipponese had attacked politely, armed to the teeth with yen. They incorporated the Union and turned it into a thriving, well-conducted economic sector, which now comprised nearly seventy percent of their vast holdings in the Western Nipponese Consolidat.

  Though Carmody had remained a staunch Unionist, resentful and distrustful of the Incorporation from the first (he had insisted that Kagami's given name have at least one L in it), his pride had been equal in tenacity to that of the highest ranking Line Nippon.

  What they now called politic was not a new custom for Kagami; it had, like so many things, simply changed names. Carmody had been one of those millions whose real estate had been badly bartered, and he'd been forced to sell a manufacturing empire for a fraction of its worth, simply because it lay in Nipponese states. He had retired, rather than attempting to revitalize the business, and had died alone, broken, bitter, soon thereafter.

  Kagami studied the half-empty glass of sake, moodily.

  "In triumph do not gloat. In defeat do not brood," said Chokki. He pushed a sprig of tomb-black hair from his finely curved face. Why did victors always throw platitudes and maxims in the face of the vanquished? "Reinforce your back line here, in the hallway. Do not extend folly with malicious play. Begin now a forthright attack." Chokki glanced about the room. "Where is your Center?"

  Kagami stepped out of the tea room and led Chokki to the gōban—the game board. The gōban was the hand-crafted component of the large home-computer which controlled the neobiotic play, and resembled a greatly expanded Go board. Kagami's stones were blue diodes on the face of the computerized gōban, Ze's red. The square plane was divided into equal sized area; the northern and southern borders were marked with letters, the eastern and western with numbers, and the lines intersected to form a grid. Kagami pointed to the D-8 sector, his tea room. Ze's red glowing stones formed a Tiger's Mouth about the sector and threatened to devour the unit.

  "How to play?"

  Chokki suppressed a sigh. "One stone, Kagami san, holds infinite power. One stone may alter the outcome of a game. Though surrounded by en
emy stones, no soldier is too small or insignificant to affect a victory for his legion. I suggest an outpost here." With a tawny finger, the Line Nippon indicated the N-13 region.

  "But I cannot afford any more stones for outposting. I am kokomu, surrounded, on many fronts. To withdraw a single stone for outposting will mean the collapse of a unit elsewhere."

  "Mr. Kagami," said Chokki, "I am a Neobiotix field representative. I can sell you an outpost."

  Chokki fiddled with his knee brechet and Kagami closed his eyes. Forcing Chokki to make such a tactless remark, to breach etiquette so boldly, made Kagami wonder if Chokki's scorn for the sansei was not entirely unfounded. He did not apologize, however, knowing that even such a gesture would only prolong—what must be for Chokki—a very difficult situation.

  Neither could he tell Chokki of his financial straits; that his legacy was tied up in the house and that he had been living on equity and small investments for nearly three months, less than the length of one game. One did not discuss such things with intimates, much less business associates. Kagami felt as if he were suffocating.

  "I…I have… I am unable to make such a purchase at this time."

  Chokki nodded and both men studied the gōban with newfound intensity, each carefully avoiding the other's eyes. Kagami drained his sake. The moment stretched into humiliation.

  Finally, Chokki spoke. "I am sorry. Professionally, then, I must judge your situation as hopeless. I suggest you turn game control over to your home-computer and allow it to finish the game mathematically. Perhaps your losses can be minimized."

  "Thank you," said Kagami. This was his advice. "More sake?"

  Chokki bowed. "Your hospitality is overwhelming. However, I am afraid I must leave. Pressing business of urgency. Take it then in lightness, Kagami san."

  "And you also be quite cool." He escorted Chokki to the front Tō-screen, reciting further pleasantries, and bid him good day and fortune. The Tō-screen parted,

  In the livingroom, Samuel Kagami studied the gōban, poured himself another two deciliters of sake, and considered. He had spent nearly three quarters of his grandfather's bequest (a mere fraction of what it would have been, had it not been converted from dorrars to yen) on the neobiotic home. It was a symbol of that which most sansei never hoped to own, and it had indeed elevated his social position. But, like a fool, he had entered into play with a superior opponent, a Line Nippon, Tonari Ze, and was now in danger of losing both home and face. He understood why Chokki had seen him as a stumbling buffoon, an inept inferior, and he detested Chokki for making the distinction so painfully evident.

  ...must judge your situation as hopeless…

  He also realized that it was his third bottle of sake today.

  Kagami slid an antique rice-paper partition from the far wall. Seventeen shelves. The true bequest. This was what remained of Charles Carmody.

  Memorabilia. Once Americana. Relics. Time-crippled dinosaurs from a day now broken and best set aside. Yet, these items sparked Kagami's imagination, excited him from within, and a day did not pass when he failed to slip aside the rice-paper and fondle one or two of them, evoking memories of days he could not possibly own.

  Zane Grey. Ah, the name itself surged with a raw and vital power. Like true anger from the blood-drenched fist of an electric god—what power in the name alone, and in the words between the crumbling paper binders.

  Dashiell Hammett. Intrigue and adventure! Trench-coated legends who roared and hungered and drank whiskies and did not hesitate to plug one full of lead should circumstances require such. Men who said as they pleased and disregarded politic, laughed in the faces of the world's well-mannered Chokkis.

  Louis L'amour. Now here was time as real men had lived it; not packaged time, caged and tamed in a watch or crystal, but time which gouged and vomited and splayed itself upon a man's life like the colored legs of a venomous insect.

  Roger Keegan. Andrew North. Hal Kantos.

  Kagami traced the rim of the cowboy's hat upon the book jacket. It was Bart Gibson's hat. Bart, a stern and commanding wrangler, lean and supple in denim and steel, and his two brothers, Luke and Roy, stood poised for action as the badmen surrounded the Bar-S Ranch.

  Kokomu, three Gibsons? thought Kagami.

  He turned to the gōban. Another red stone twinkled to life near the tea room at D-8. Ze had moved, after a three day wait, and the third panel of the referee lighted GO: : :

  Kagami's turn. He seated himself before the board.

  "I've got you covered, Luke. This town ain't big enough for both of us. Reach for the sky, horsethief!"

  Even as Kagami turned to capture the voice, his hand moved autonomously and lifted the stone from the D-7 sector, the last strong stone in the tea room unit.

  "Sheriff, the Wilker boys are down at the Bar-S. There's gonna be a whole bunch of shooting!"

  His fingers caressed the stone, placing it carefully between index and forefinger, and set it down with a smart click.

  "The three Gibson's at the Bar-S, Doc."

  "Three Gibsons. Bar-S."

  "Bar-S. Three."

  The stone clicked at S-3. The GO: : : light winked out and the referee indicated Ze's turn. Samuel Kagami felt dizzy.

  He retreated to his lioo-chair and listened to his heart pump furiously, contemplating what had happened and realizing that—whatever had come over him a moment ago—he had made the worst of all possible moves. His delicate garden would now strike at the heart of Tonari Ze's heavily reinforced den. The garden would be surrounded so quickly. The house would fall.

  The sake made Kagami feel ill, and with no hesitation, he switched the game to computer control, as Chokki had suggested, closing his eyes tightly to take one last nap in his neobiotic home before conceding defeat.

  By the time Samuel Kagami awoke, he owned all of Ze's territory.

  The GO: : : light had winked on four hours earlier, the ever patient electronic referee indicated that it was Kagami's turn. He studied his image in the polished surface of the gōban, and listened to the creaking of his den. He stroked his new moustache slowly, thinking that it made his face look more angular, harder, sharper.

  Bisho Rinjin was an excellent player, and even with the full force of Kagami's combined territories, he had not answered Kagami's threats to the greenhouse hastily. Instead, he had played around Kagami and attacked the den, a subtle yet stinging offensive which Kagami could not ignore.

  Kagami contemplated the gōban, recognized gestalts and micro gestalts, conceived patterned formations of stones, computed the intricate futures of both defense and offense. His hands eagerly kneaded the collar of his silk robe, his slippered feet tapped nervously. He poured his fifth cup of Johnny Walker New Tokyo Whiskey and gulped it hurriedly, waiting. He held the book in his lap, his fingers moving anxiously up and down the spine.

  Finally: the peculiar spinning sensation. The gōban swirled in a splatter of color. He found himself holding a cup, and sighed.

  "Please, some water," said the man.

  The frail fellow, slumped in a straight-backed chair, groaned. His pock-marked face was a crucifixion of sweat and fatigue, the cracks in his snake-skin lips were made ghostly white by the blinding bulb which hung in the interrogation room.

  Kagami reached up, touched the bulb, and it swung ominously above the man's head. This was not Oklahoma, circa 1883. What then? When? Kagami looked down at his hands. The book was gone. He noticed his own stocky build, certainly not the slender sansei he had been a moment before, the nearly perfect shine on his black leather shoes, the shoulder-holster buckled expertly about his trunk.

  "Are you okay, Lieutenant?" said a burly fellow, also wearing a pistol, but leaning against the far wall, smoking in the shadows.

  Lieutenant? Kagami glanced at the man slumped in the chair in the center of the room. His wrists had deep red marks in them, and Kagami's hands went to his belt.

  Handcuffs.

  Kagami left the spotlighted circle and joined the two m
en at the other side of the room.

  "You look tired," said the big fellow.

  "Still worried about your brother?" The second man was thin and his voice had a high-pitched nasal quality. He wore a striped shirt with rolled sleeves, and a vest.

  "I suppose so," said Kagami.

  "Don't worry about Scotty," said the thin man, "he'll kill a couple of Krauts, knock in a few Nip heads, and be Stateside before you know it. He'll be alright."

  "Yeah," said Kagami. "You're right."

  Nips. That would make it somewhere around 1940, and, judging from the thin fellow's vocal tones, somewhere in the midwest. Perhaps Chicago or St. Louis.

  "I don't think Joey's going to tell us anything," said the burly detective, whose badge indicated that his name was Meyers. Yes, there, on the badge: CPD. Chicago then.

  "He knows where Calhoun is hiding."

  "He ain't telling." Meyers shrugged.

  Kagami listened carefully. Yes, this Joey was a prisoner and Murray Calhoun a stick-up man. All the information seemed to be seeking and finding its proper place, as if Kagami had forgotten for only a moment, as if this man named Samuel Kagami—the sansei—had been but a tremor of stage-fright in a police Lieutenant's mind.

  "I told you, I don't know no Murray Calhoun. I don't know where he is." Joey rotated his head, clamped his eyes shut in the bright light. Kagami felt a wave of anger come washing the shores of thought; the man was lying.

  Joey's head bobbed, his neck seemed strangely contorted, his face a peculiar contrast of harsh light and shadows. The face seemed so familiar, so real, so close, so…

  Kagami pulled back his right hand and smashed the backside across Joey's face. The sound echoed off the bare walls of the interrogation room with a reverberating crack. Joey's head swung sideways with the force of the blow, then sagged desperately to his chest. A slick stream of crimson wound its way from his nostril to his upper lip. The two men in the corner shifted uneasily, and Meyers lit another cigarette.

  Kagami wiggled his fingers and blinked.

  The contact… the flesh against flesh…the surge of his muscles… the yielding of bone… it had felt… felt good.