Asimov's SF, January 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  That which he had been forced to create would soon be hidden, perhaps forever, either in a jail or in a morgue. But Harumi, and her growing collection of fleshy kimono, of close-fitting skin kosode, she would continue to be seen, if she would allow Masafumi to augment her three-dimensional garment, once she learned of Ulger's inevitable fate.

  Pedaling to his small apartment that night, he swerved just in time to avoid the chalked outline of a large, beefy body on the sidewalk in front of the Japanese restaurant not long before the real police had cordoned off the area with black-lettered yellow plastic tape. Preoccupied, Masafumi wondered which might be more suitable—an osode of finest gauze, or the more daring nano-fabric.

  * * * *

  IV (Heian kosode)

  "...what is a kimono ... if it ceases to be a thing worn?"

  —Kunihiko Moriguchi, 2005

  "When no one chooses to wear kimono, might they not choose to become the kimono?"

  —Masafumi Saikaku (1999-2073) From: “The Lives They Lived” ("Emperor of the Epidermal Kimono"), Sunday, January 2074, The New York Times Magazine.

  The next morning, Masafumi wasn't too surprised when Harumi didn't show up with her customary trays of momengoshi, ready for her hand-worked embellishment, but when Ignazio didn't show up for work either, he first grew puzzled, then ... as he worked through each layer of their most recent words and actions, dwelling in particular on the seeming happenstance of their wants and needs, which managed to merge with his own artistic needs and wants, he became angry, shamed to the bone by their tandem deception, their dual interplay of common desire for him to act in their stead (the unspoken upset on Harumi's part, Ignazio's urgings to find out what was wrong, the revelation of their common foe ... and Ignazio's sudden urge to play nano-Master to his unsuspecting Apprentice). But his anger washed away like unwanted dye from a resist painting when he ventured for the second time into the restaurant where Harumi had worked, past the dew-blurred chalk-outline of Ulger's body. One of the recent immigrant waitresses hurried over to him and said, “Harumi, she say for me to tell you something. She say thank you, and she hope you not angry at her and her boyfriend. She say, they cannot be free unless common enemy is gone. But they cannot be ones to stop enemy. She hopes you understand, and forgive. And she say, she love new kosode. When they come back, she want more. If you wish to make for her."

  “Did she say ... did they say where they are going?"

  “Las Vegas. They have Skin Show there. She go show off kosode, tell everyone you make. Oh, she also say to get rid of the ribbons, she say you know what mean. Okay? You have meal now?

  “I'm not hungry—"

  “Not hungry, is okay. I put in box later. Harumi, she pay ahead. She say serve you special dish ... you sit, I go get,” and so Masafumi sat, surrounded by scents and memories and distant sounds of cooking, until the waitress placed a plate of kinugoshi before him, and the scent of the deep-fried “silken” tofu filled his nostrils. As he picked up his chopsticks, he noticed in the dim light that there was a design, deeply branded, in the center of the slab of kinugoshi:

  The ancient symbol for a kimono....

  Lifting the oishii treat to his lips, prior to savoring the warm custard-like interior, Masafumi decided that no matter what it might cost him, or how many free tattoos he might give that nanotech factory worker, he'd somehow get the thirteen yards worth of transparent nanofabric for Harumi's osode ... under the circumstances, no other cloth would do. m

  Copyright © 2006 A. R. Morlan

  —Special thanks to Ardath Mayhar for her help with revising this work.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  BATTLEFIELD GAMES

  by R. Neube

  When I mentioned to R. Neube that his story would help kick off our thirtieth anniversary year, he remarked, “Geez, I can recall picking up that first copy at the Fayette Cigar Store. I was about to say it can't be that long ago, but it occurs to me that the building that replaced the store has also been torn down for something new.” He also updates us with the following news: “For the sixth year, I made a presentation at the Governor's Scholarship Program, a collection of the cream of Kentucky's high schoolers. Weird addressing so many kids smarter than me, but I enjoy teaching them to run with scissors and how to invest their retirement funds in lottery tickets. I currently have a piece in a collection of novellas from Padwolf, ‘Murder and Mayhem in the Godbox on a Million Dollars a Day.’”

  “Hey, you. Yes, you, next to the fern stump."

  I parted the camouflage netting covering my foxhole. The talkative cruise missile hovered a few meters from my position. Ducking, I rolled to the monitors. The sensors I had deployed across the river showed no advancing enemy. Nonetheless, I grabbed my weapon.

  “If you are going to point a rifle at me,” said the missile, “shoot. Get it over with."

  Chagrined, I lowered my weapon. “Kinda be stupid to shoot five tons of explosives sitting on my doorstep.” Kind of irritating that an alien cruise missile spoke better English than I did.

  “Are you as bored as I am?"

  “Machines get bored?"

  The shape of the cruise missile reminded me of a bulgy human brain. General Li often ranted how the aliens played psych warfare games with us, the wrinkly brain imagery being another of their tricks. I was reassured seeing the missile had its defensive cannon pointed at the sun.

  “Do you play chess?” asked the missile.

  “I—Uh, General—Ha, you aren't going to trick me into giving you any information."

  “I asked about chess, not for military secrets."

  “Yes, I play. However I would have to get authorization from headquarters first. There are rules against fraternizing with the enemy."

  “Humans have so many rules.” The cruise missile sounded disappointed before it scooted down the Luchesa River valley.

  I started to radio Command, then thought the missile's offer might be a ruse to have me call and reveal ... Reveal what? Our frequencies? Our codes? The aliens already knew them by now. I hadn't a clue what my action might reveal to the enemy, but I decided my report could wait until I was relieved.

  So, of course, Command buzzed me. The listening post to the west had reported my encounter with the enemy. Major Thurinsten seemed quite amused, granting me permission to play chess with any enemy missile, artillery shell, or land mine that came my way. Then she told me I should get comfortable because I was spending the rest of the week in my foxhole. Lest I grew bored playing games with enemy weapons, the major instructed me to excavate a trench ten meters long, connecting my foxhole with an old, water-filled shell hole behind my position.

  “But my shovel is broken,” I said.

  “You're so highly trained, improvise."

  “But that crater is a pond. It will flood my foxhole and the rest of the trench."

  “Then drain the shell hole. Improvise."

  I could feel the love.

  * * * *

  The distant thunder of an artillery barrage accompanied my lunch. I felt grateful my sector remained quiet. Quiet Luchesa was where Command stuck all the fragments of units chopped up in battle. My last battalion had been shifted here after our weeklong adventure in an active sector; only ninety-one of us remained of the original nine hundred after fighting the alien Irlane and their machines for a few hundred meters of swamp. Gossip said Command wasn't going to rebuild my Fourth Hannigan after our mediocre performance.

  The remainders of the Second Wongs, the Scots Heritage Foundation, the Fifty-Ninth Street Sisters, and the Pierpont Hockey Association Battalions were stationed here with us. (What possessed the colonists to give their units these names? Damned amateurs behaved like they were forming bowling leagues, not going to war.) Half the volunteer battalions on the northern front had been slaughtered this year. Our blood earned us this Luchesa vacation while the real soldiers from off-world dealt with the Irlane and their bored machines.

  Real soldiers, I
mused. Years of training and what good did it do me? I was the personal whipping boy for Major Thurinsten, despite my sergeant's stripes.

  The thunder didn't quit. My stomach clenched as my imagination haunted me with memories of the times I had been huddled in a trench, waiting for the barrage to cease so we could charge the Irlane lines. Waiting to die. I fetched my broken spade, harnessing my disquiet by working on my assigned trench.

  The cruise missile's engines gave off an unmistakable hum, alerting me to its presence. Like something the size of a small house could be subtle. I clambered back to my foxhole, rubbernecking the whole way, half expecting to be whacked by an Irlane sniper.

  “Have you received authorization to play chess?” asked the missile.

  “Don't you have anything better to do?"

  “Not really. I patrol and get my regular servicing at the depot. Until I encounter a proper target, that is my existence."

  “Not much of an existence,” I observed.

  “Better than being my target."

  I could almost hear the missile chuckle. Could a machine have a sense of humor?

  I grumbled, “Last year, one of your peers made a ‘proper target’ of my original battalion while we were assembling for an assault. My lieutenant sent me back to her tent to get her binoculars. I popped over a rise, and there was a horrendous boom. Knocked me down. Which was fortunate, since it helped me escape all that flying debris. So I got transferred to this unit."

  It had been my fourth day on the planet. We had flown a dozen light-years to win this war for the yokels, yet had never seen the enemy. Only a handful of my original battalion survived the detonation of the missile. Command deemed it wise to scatter us through the volunteer formations of this colonial world to spread our expertise.

  “Is this a bad time?” asked the missile, snapping me from my stroll down nightmare lane.

  “Naw, don't take my mood personally. I don't blame you. A missile can't help being a missile."

  “Care to play some chess?"

  “I knew the Irlane are crazy about chess, but it's weird they programmed you for it, too."

  “I am not programmed. I learned the game during the flight to this world. The crew was very enthusiastic about their tournaments, so they activated some of us to play with them."

  Why did the missile's voice sound so familiar? A holographic chessboard appeared beneath the missile; the pawns were humans. Psych warfare, I told myself. Two could play that game.

  “What's your name? I can't call you Citizen Missile."

  “Call me White.” The king's pawn advanced.

  Was it making fun of my albino-dyed skin? It had been so fashionable back home.

  We played three quick games. I lost them all, due to trying to match the machine's speed. At the end of the third game, the missile abruptly flew to the west, cracking the sound barrier along the way.

  I ducked, thinking its haste might be a prelude to an attack on my position. Scanned every centimeter of the boggy bank on the opposite side of the river for creeping aliens. Nothing.

  Once again, distant explosions filled my ears. We were softening up the Irlane lines thirty klicks away, yet White raced off in the opposite direction. What could that mean? I immediately typed up a report on my chip-plate, but could not bring myself to broadcast it to Command, still suspecting some kind of trick to crack our codes.

  Late that night, a pair of grunts fetched me rations and more mines to deploy on my perimeter. They babbled about our offensive against Mount Benz launched at dusk. The Pierpont Hockey freaks had been withdrawn from our sector's reserve to join the distant attack. Since the other three Hannigan battalions were involved in the attack, rumor had it that our fragment of an unit was going to join them.

  I sent back my chess report with them, along with a request for some decent digging tools.

  Come morning, I got a long call from the major. She was thoroughly aggravated as usual. I got the distinct impression she thought I was filing bogus reports just to harass Command. The trench was now ordered to branch from the shell hole with two four-meter extensions forming a V toward the rear. As if we had the troops to fill them.

  “How far have you gotten on the first trench?"

  “Three meters."

  “Only three meters? I hope this war isn't interfering with your nap time, Sergeant Crenna."

  “My spade is broken."

  “Stop playing games and start digging."

  * * * *

  I played another game with the missile an hour before dawn. The holographic chess set was even more impressive in the dark, its pieces shimmering in silver and gold. Caution kept me in the shadows, worried an alien sniper might be waiting for me to silhouette myself against the glow. I slowed the play to human speed. Still lost, but I made a better showing.

  Spent the day digging, courtesy of three separate bellows from the major. Seemed I was her special project, no doubt my reward for being overheard caviling against moronic amateurs like her leading these benighted volunteer battalions. Then again, the agricultural salesman turned quartermaster had “lost” a month's worth of our rations before being “promoted” by Command to lead this sector. I might have accepted the “loss” as incompetence, if Major Thurinsten hadn't started appearing in tailored uniforms and discussing her stock portfolio.

  Then again, if there was a right place for a trained soldier, it was in a forward listening post. The colonial volunteers lacked the savvy to operate the intricate sensory net deployed on the opposite bank of the shallow river. And being far from the major's eagle eyes kept me out of further trouble.

  The missile dropped by as the afternoon waned.

  “It is a pity about your offensive,” said my metallic buddy with that too familiar voice. Could it be mimicking a twentieth century actor?

  Psych warfare, I reminded myself.

  “Give me a min, Citizen Missile. Gotta check something."

  Took the extra time to study my monitors. Nothing moved on the enemy's side of the river. However, I detected something moving on the distant slope behind me. Snatching my binoculars, I glimpsed a helmet. Since the insectile Irlane had exoskeletons, they didn't use helmets. So, my dear major had sent someone to spy on me.

  “What did you say ‘bout the attack?"

  “It was an obvious move. Terrain and obstacles channeled your troops into our killing zone. It wasn't a fight, it was a slaughter."

  Psych warfare.

  “Perhaps it was meant to fail,” I lied. “Daresay a pawn sacrifice was part of the general's plan."

  The game started with my usual cautious deployment of my pieces. The missile attacked with a bishop-knight combination.

  “Just out of curiosity, how much do you cost?” I asked.

  “Twenty-four million Nok dollars at the current rate of exchange. Would you like that in another currency?"

  “No, that's fine. Reckon they've got about two mill invested in me, though most of that was the cost of getting me to this godforsaken planet."

  My pieces absorbed the damage from the missile's knight, then I launched a pointless sortie with my queen, catching a few pawns, rather than repairing my position by castling. The missile seemed nonplussed, growing more obsessed with attacking my vulnerable king, despite my queen raising hell. The missile couldn't focus; it blundered, losing a rook. Of course, when I finally did castle, my foe regained the tempo and beat me like a rug.

  “Wait!” I shouted as the missile began to sidle west after checkmate. “I have a question."

  My chess buddy shifted back in front of my foxhole. “Yes?"

  “How does it feel to be expendable?” I wanted the machine to know humans could play the psych warfare game, too.

  “I will be expended. That is my programming. I am not expendable. When I end, I will contribute to the war effort. Not before. Can you say the same?"

  “Checkmate,” I replied, thinking the major would sacrifice me without losing a minute's sleep.

  “
I can multitask,” bragged the missile.

  “I can dig like a mole,” I responded.

  The missile's nose cannon burped. I screamed, throwing myself deep into the hidey hole I had dug into the wall of my foxhole.

  “I do not like spies watching my games,” said the missile.

  By the time I crawled from my foxhole, the phosphorus shells had ceased burning. The major's scout, as well as an entire stand of ferns in which he had hidden, smoldered.

  I had the feeling I would spend the rest of the war filling out incident reports.

  * * * *

  The major assigned me to the listening post for another month as my punishment. Sent me a stack of hardcopy chess games from Capablanca, two centuries old, but still the only chessmaster who confounded modern computers, according to pundits at headquarters.

  Crawled out the next night and deployed my new mines across the river. A trick the Hannigan amateurs would have never sussed was the way I dug a hole and buried six rocket launchers after exhausting my store of duct tape to wrap them together. A hot wire to their triggers was simple to bury under a few centimeters of clay. Their muzzles were easy to mask with a thermal blanket and a few ferns. A professional noticed things like a missile's preferred hovering position.

  The offensive had failed, but the tube freaks continued hurling boomers at Mount Benz. Were our generals getting kickbacks on the purchase of artillery shells?

  With my next batch of rations, Command finally deigned to issue me a pick and unbroken shovel.

  Couldn't sleep. So I continued the trench.

  Took too many go pills. Spasmed in the mud during my overdose. But I recovered after a long nap. Or was it a short coma?

  Major Thurinsten chewed me out the next day for sleeping too much.

  * * * *

  My missile buddy arrived shortly after dark. It refused to hover over my rocket launcher trap.

  I opened the match with a Ruy Lopez, knowing how the missile would respond. Whereupon, I threw out my knight at the absolute wrong moment. My foe could not compute, continuing with its attack on my kingside until my knight forked its king and queen. The brain-shaped vessel wobbled as it planned its next move—none would be good.