Year of the Tiger. Lisa Brackman

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      My first duty assignment was at one of the biggest forward operating bases in the Triangle. Life on the FOB was okay, in comparison to the alternatives. We had a PX, where you could buy toothpaste and iPods and tampons, a dining hall with a salad bar and a taco station, a little gym, air-conditioning some of the time, Internet connections. I could get a mochaccino in the morning if I wanted, before going out on patrol. That part sucked, though, and there was no getting around it. I was a medic, not some fobbit who never left the base. It was my job to ride along, in case somebody got shot or blown up.

      You hear ‘patrol,’ and you’re probably thinking ‘combat’; we’re out there fighting bad guys. It wasn’t like that. I was part of a support company. Most of the time, we delivered supplies, guarded cheesecake for truck convoys run by private contractors like KBR, or escorted public affairs officers to some meeting with the locals.

      The heat was like nothing I’ve ever felt before, like the sun and the wind were cooking me down to my bones, drying me out from the inside, and no amount of water was going to keep me from shriveling up into some girl-shaped piece of jerky. Everything was coated in greasy dust. I’d blow my nose and my snot would come out like it was just glue to hold the grit and dirt together. We were hacking this shit up all the time, always sweating, leaving stiff white salt stains on our T-shirts. With the women, sometimes you could see our tits outlined in white against the khaki. The guys loved that.

      I fucked around a little. Not at first. At first it was like, ‘Let’s see who can freak out the good little Christian girl.’

      Things like: ‘Hey, Baby Doc, check it out.’

      I was checking my e-mail, and Specialist Turner was sitting at the terminal next to me.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Got some pics from home.’

      I leaned over to take a look. On his screen, this big dick was pumping in and out of some porn star’s pussy, while another guy straddled her, his cock between her inflated tits, which she was squeezing together like she was playing an accordion.

      I looked away. I wanted to say something funny or sarcastic or mean, like I didn’t care, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

      ‘Aw, come on, don’t be such a bitch,’ Turner said.

      I went back to my e-mail. My mom had sent me one about what religion your bra is (‘the Catholic type supports the masses, the Presbyterian type keeps them staunch and upright, and the Baptist makes mountains out of molehills’) that said I should send it on to anyone who would appreciate it.

      Turner and I hooked up a couple days later, out by the laundry trailer, where there was a storeroom that was used for supplies. At night, nobody went there. At first, I felt pretty bad about it. Turner was married, had a kid, and I wasn’t supposed to do things like that. But there I was, lying on a pile of dirty sheets, my T-shirt and bra in a heap over bottles of bleach and detergent, my fatigues tangled up around my ankles.

      ‘It’s TDY, Baby Doc,’ he told me, sliding his finger in and out. ‘TDY doesn’t count.’

      TDY means temporary duty assignment. It’s all been TDY since then, you know?

      The game takes a long time to load, but it’s an elaborate game, and you never know what the Great Firewall is doing to your Internet connection here on any given day.

      Finally, here’s the log-in screen, a vaguely Chinese landscape of misty, cloud-swaddled mountain peaks and pagodas. An animated warrior on horseback gallops across. Then the music comes on – a pseudo-traditional Chinese soundtrack with the mournful erhu and the twanging runs and staccato chords of the pipa, all with a heavy drum and bass backbeat.

      It takes me three tries to remember my password, because it’s been a while since I played this game. When I get it right, my avatar, Little Mountain Tiger, pops up, non-magical sword in hand.

      The Sword of Ill Repute is based on Chinese myth and legend – the Hong Kong movie versions, anyway. A whole class of characters comes from the twelve birth animals of the Chinese horoscope. Most people play as a variation of the animal from their birth year. So if you’re a Boar, like Lao Zhang, you have certain attributes based on your intrinsic Boar nature, plus others that have to do with the particular year you were born in, your elements, your rising sign, and so on.

      I’m actually a Rat, but no matter how many times Lao Zhang told me that the Rat is a good sign –’Smart, clever, not like Boars. Boars too trusting. Too idealistic. Better in this world to be a Rat.’ – I didn’t want to be ‘Little Sewer Rat’ or what have you. ‘Little Mountain Tiger’ is based on the particular year, month, and day of my birthday, which happens to be a Tiger day. So that’s how I play, with faint tiger stripes accenting my cheekbones.

      The scene shifts. I’m in an unfamiliar setting, nothing like where I last left off playing. I’m walking up a steep mountain path, animated pebbles crunching under my feet. Crows caw in the pine trees overhead. A warrior steps onto the path, Shao Wu of the Wounded Mountain. An NPC – a non-player character.

      ‘Halt and state your allegiance!’ says the text in the main chat window. You can play this game in Chinese or English, thanks to Babblefish translators.

      I try to walk on by, and the NPC pulls out his sword.

      I hit auto-attack. The music turns martial. We fight. I kill him and gain a few experience points. Then I keep walking.

      I continue on the path and see, off to the left, a wooden building with a steep pitched roof and a sign whose characters I recognize: Cha Guan.

      A teahouse.

      I go inside.

      More pipa music plinks in the background. Animated figures sit in booths at wooden tables, sip tea, play cards, СКАЧАТЬ