IndianSF-Issue-3-May-June by IndianSF

Author:IndianSF [IndianSF]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: ContactART
Published: 2013-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

Pawn by Timons Esaias

~4700 words

What Winstead knew about Squire Yvor was this: he was a pawnbroker. Years ago, he had brokered the more important pieces--your knights, your rooks--but for several years now, it was pawns only. Reliable pawns, but not the most expensive nor the most stylish.

What Winstead knew about chess was nothing, but his boss had sent him down here to get some decent material, and suggested that Winstead's job might be on the line. Winstead knew that meant the boss's head itself was probably pretty close to the block. O the times. O the business climate.

The real bitch of it was that he actually had to physically go to the place, with nothing but a monocle to keep him connected to the datastream. Brokers positively refused to deal material over the publink. Tradition or something. Customers had to get out of their workpit or pentsuite and march down to the shop to take responsibility for the choice themselves. And responsibility was another bitch in this bitchy business. Who took responsibility these days?

Taking responsibility stinks of bad form.

So, anyway, there was this going-out thing. Pitters like Winstead wore their agoraphobia as a medal of distinction, an effing croix de salary. Took him an hour to bring himself to ask his monocle for routing instructions.

And another hour to get started.

The taxi had four-inch armour. "Yeah," the drivebot complained, "had to have this slab a junk plated with another two inches. All these buildings running a mile high, and they never think of the effect on the driving public. It's no biggie for the trucks, cause they're all down in the substreets. But stuff falls off those monsters all the time, and smacks the ground pretty hard. City don't care, insurance companies don't care. Guess they both make money off filling in the impact craters. And you can't just armour the top, neither, 'cause there's no telling what funny ricochets stuff'll take when it comes down."

Winstead toggled the viewcamera up to vertical so he could see the subject being discussed. The sky was a narrow line, interrupted by causeways. If that was the sky, and not some balcony lighting. Winstead hoped, suddenly, that it wasn't the sky, so that he'd feel more enclosed. This cab was twice the size of his workpit, though the thought of the armour made it more comfortable. Cosy.

"Say, since I'm taking you to the renowned Yvor's, I should ask you. Are you a player yourself, or just running an errand? I used to play chess myself, with some of my spare processing time, the old chess that is. Not what you folks play today."

Winstead flipped off the viewer. Instantly he felt better. "I'm just rounding up a pawn for a game tomorrow. Our corporation's sponsoring a player in the summer tournament." "Ah," said the taxi. "So what's at stake in this tournament?"

He didn't respond at first because he didn't know, and then didn't respond because he had never realised that he didn't know. "Yeah, I know, "Don't Ask, Don't Think", right?" The taxi swerved, and then seemed to be on an elevator.

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