Let The Games Begin

The Opening

Comrades and enemies stood shoulder to shoulder in truce on the eve of battle, retelling their favorite skirmishes over cocktails in the New York Weston Hotel's lounge. Angelo Torres kept his distance from the pack. He had no interest in bragging. He was better than all of them, and he'd prove it at tomorrow's chess tournament. He was standing at the corner of the bar drinking a Coke hoping to catch sight of the person he did fear, the one who'd mailed him a personal challenge.The letter had arrived a year ago tomorrow. Among some very personal things it named tomorrow's tournament and was signed check. It rested in his jacket pocket. He wasn't sure whether he was carrying it for motivation or to remind him the sender wasn't a childhood fantasy.
He shook his head, setting the glass on the bar. He isn't here. This is a waste of time. I'll find him tomorrow.
Before he could step away, a young blonde placed her drink next to his. Her accent was thick. "Zo, no drinking tonight before the tournament or you no drink alone?" She was Sophia Adamski a grandmaster from Poland. A very competent player—the highest compliment he ever gave anyone.
"I guess I'm not in the mood," he said.
She looked deeply into his eyes. "I think I understand. Did Maria drive up from Philadelphia with you?"
"No." Angelo took a deep breath. "I have to leave. I'm… not feeling good."
She raised her glass to him. "To tomorrow."

The next morning he kicked off the hotel blanket and, out of habit and irrational hope, he reached across the bed. But Maria wasn't there. He pushed himself up and ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair, then grabbed his only companion—the letter—off the nightstand. He quickly dressed and took the elevator to the lobby. He smiled thinly. Let the games begin.

He burrowed through the wall of spectators and competitors to the practice room, a sanctuary connected to the grand ballroom where the games are played. He sat at an unoccupied table where a practice chessboard waited, the pieces standing at attention, waiting for deployment. He meditated on their symmetry, calming his thoughts as he prepared for who was coming.

He didn't have long to wait. A man walked into the room, his stiff gait drawing Angelo's attention. The man's piercing blue eyes settled on Angelo. Though they'd met only once before, many years ago, he'd never forgotten that icy glare, or that walk. Angelo's trembling hand rose to his breast pocket and the letter. Peter Standish had arrived, albeit with an altered appearance. Doesn't matter, Angelo thought. Once we play, the witness relocation program or whatever can have him back.
Peter took the empty seat across from him and nodded. "You accepted my challenge. Someone nearly convinced me you would not and it was not worth my time coming. Interesting."

Definitely Peter. The odd accent and the jarring way he avoided contractions clinched it. Angelo swallowed before gesturing toward the chessboard between them.
Peter shook his head. "No, not here. We play in the tournament. If you are good enough we will be paired in the finals. If not, I will leave and we will never meet again."
Angelo stiffened. "I'm good enough."

"Better than last time?"

Angelo broke eye contact, focusing once more on the board.

Angelo was seven years old when the clumsy reflexes of a drunk driver had killed his father, orphaning him. His mother had died two years earlier in Veracruz, Mexico, from a rare strain of influenza. Because his father was a freshly minted citizen of the United States, Philadelphia social services had shuttled him off to Pine Ridge Orphanage where his broken English hadn't endeared him to the other inmates. The older boys happily pushed around the little Chicano.

Playing chess in the break room with the Latinos among the maintenance staff gave him his only comfort. It eased some of his loneliness, reminding him of the nights he'd spent playing with his father. His Papa had been a regional champion back in Mexico. The calm from shutting out the world rewarded him with the clarity to visualize pieces moving through complex combinations to find winning moves.

But his skill quickly brought an end to the backroom games. His adult friends didn't like losing to a niñito. They still let him tag along with them, but no more games.

It turned out he valued the game more than their company. He'd rather sit alone in his room playing solitary chess games than cling to them. When the inmates were out playing, he'd jump online where anonymous players never cared about accents or whether it was a kid who beat them.

When he was old enough to be trusted alone on a bus, he spent his free time at the public library pouring over books written by chess grandmasters. He learned their secrets, their art, their science, and how to see their mistakes.

He played people at Rittenhouse Square Park near Philadelphia's fashion district, where chess players of all ages gathered. He fitted in, and winning made him popular. To make the games more interesting and to show off, he played groups of people simultaneously.

He was invited to local chess clubs for blindfolded display of his skill. People would even pay to see the fifteen year old prodigy.

When Angelo turned seventeen, two events changed his life forever. First he met a Latina named Maria Vega in school, who taught him how to kiss and hinted at more to come.

Best of all she didn't think him weird for playing chess. In fact it was her idea that he play in his first tournament where the winner would go on to play in the state championship.
It was there that the second event had occurred. He met Peter Standish.

He was odd looking even for a middle-aged white guy. He was thin as a skeleton, and he jerked when he walked like he had a yardstick up his butt. And then there were his eyes: piercing blue, perfectly designed to distract players. Well, most anyway. They wouldn't get to Angelo.

He took his seat across from Angelo when it was their turn to play. "Hi, my name is Peter."

Angelo nodded, trying to decide whether he wanted to pretend he didn't speak English. He already knew who Peter was: the only other undefeated player, which wasn't all that impressive. None of his opponents here had had the depth of understanding he craved to make it interesting. He didn't expect any more from this man, so he didn't feel like getting personal.

"I know who you are," Peter said, switching to Spanish. "You're the only real competition I have here. I've been following your games."

That almost made Angelo look up. The man's strange way of talking was just as disturbing in Spanish.

Peter continued. "It is a shame for you that we had to meet here instead of the State or National games. But only one of us can go on." He paused for a moment. "I am better than you."

This time Angelo did look up. "We haven't even played yet," Angelo said in English, crossing his arms across his chest. "How do you know who's better?"

Peter shrugged, making even that look awkward. "I understand your games. Do you understand mine?

Angelo had breezed by his opponents so he hadn't had the urge to study the completed games posted by the judges. "I understand all I need to," he mumbled.

A smile crept across Peter's gaunt face. "Shall we begin?"

Angelo answered by starting the play clock. These were timed games where each player stopped his clock after completing a move, starting his opponent's. When a player's allotted time ran out, he lost no matter how superior his position.

Peter's opening moves were straightforward enough. Angelo defended as the grandmasters in the books he used to read would have. There were no surprises in the game. It was actually quite ordinary, but by the middle of the game, for reasons he didn't understand, the delicate balance of their positions subtlety tipped away from him and he had to play catch up. Combinations of different moves filled his head but none of them helped. He had lost games before but none of those had mattered. Today he was playing with the pure intent to win. When he did that he never lost. Except maybe this time.

The last of his defenses crumbled during the endgame and Peter's pieces surrounded Angelo's king. He felt a stab of jealously. How could this happen? Chess is supposed to be mine.

"Would you accept a draw?" Peter asked.

The offer jolted him like slap in the face. "Why? You've won."

"It is enough that we both know I am the stronger player."

Angelo silently tipped his king on the board, surrendering the game, then pushed himself up from his chair and walked away.

He read online about Peter's victory over a field of some of the strongest players in the country the next weekend at the State Championship. The article predicted the winner of this tournament would easily be the National champion by the year's end, but Peter never showed up to another tournament.

The disappearance left a void in Angelo, and as the years passed, he never forgot Peter Standish. He needed to prove his worthiness to him. So he continued practicing and playing tournaments until, nearly two decades later, he'd moved up in the world standings until he was a front runner in a bid for the World Championship.

Then the letter had arrived.

His obsession combusted, and not even Maria remained unscathed. He barely looked up from his practice board when a taxi driver carried her luggage out. It would all be okay because he was going to win.

The Middle Game

He left Peter—or rather John Hardy, the name he was currently answering to—in the hotel's practice room. He studied the pairings chart in the grand ballroom. The judges had paired the higher-ranked players with lower ones, saving the drama of higher-profile matchups for the later rounds. Somehow Peter had finagled himself into the high rank category. So he'd been right; they wouldn't meet in any of these early games. Angelo wondered whether the judges were somehow in league with Peter.

Angelo defeated his first opponent quickly. His next matchup was only mildly more difficult, but the result was the same. Before leaving for the evening he looked around. Not finding Peter, he examined the posted results. Peter had also won his games and had already left.

The next morning Angelo felt relaxed and focused. He had even managed to sleep through the entire night with no thoughts of Maria. Determination had cleared his mind.

As he prepared to play Sophia, she leaned toward him before starting the clock. "Have you noticed Hardy?"

A shiver ran up his back. "He's… hard to miss."

"I'm not sure how it's possible, but I swear I've played him before."

"When?"

"When I was a child, back in Warsaw—but I've never seen him before. I just feel it. Weird?"

"Did you win?"

"No." She started the game clock.

They both played sharp openings, setting up and executing aggressive attacks that lasted into the depths of the middle game. The game was almost sexual in its give and take. He allowed the game's complexity to wash over him, energizing his creative intuition.

Sophia's endurance was incredible, but not infinite. She let him down in the end by making a mistake. She resigned the game a few moves later. She smiled wistfully at him as they shared a look of mutual understanding. "I think that is how it happened back in Warsaw."

The End Game

On a raised stage in the ballroom, Angelo and Peter sat facing each other. A camera aimed down at the game board between them, ready to project their moves onto a screen towering above them for the audience.

By the judge's decision John Hardy would move first. Angelo played a defense he'd been saving, something Peter couldn't have studied. He made his moves quickly, slamming his chess pieces into place as soon as Peter completed a turn.

After his troops were fully in position, he used his banked time to study the board. He sighed. He hadn't caught the man by surprise. Each side had neutralized each other. There was nothing beautiful in this game. Even worse, there was nothing here to feel.
In a risky maneuver he stormed Peter's weaker flank. It left his king vulnerable, but it was something, and something—anything—different, was better than what this game had evolved into. He glanced up and saw Peter studying him through narrowed blue eyes.

"I had expected better," Peter said in a low voice. He slid his bishop across the board. "Check."

Angelo felt ashamed. He'd let his partner down, only he wasn't sure how. He blocked the piece with his knight.

"Of course, if you have nothing left, I'll understand," Peter said after making his next move. "We can end this now."

"I'll continue," he caught himself saying in Spanish, a language he hadn't spoken since Pine Ridge. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes before returning his attention to the board.

He looked for the source of Peter's disappointment. Instead he found a possibility, a seed of a plan, nothing more. He made his next move.

Peter grinned as they continued, giving Angelo a warm feeling. He'd done well.

Once balance was restored it was time for the seed to grow. He began limiting Peter's defensive access to his weakest point, and then he expanded the radius to the point where a couple of Peter's pieces were awkwardly placed for defense. Angelo took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and searched. Then he saw it—the path to the win. He slowly opened his eyes, smiled, and nodded to Peter. This time when he attacked, he knew the timing was right. "Check," he announced.

Peter captured the attacking piece, adding a rook to his spoils of war.

Angelo kept his eyes on Peter, the board no longer mattering. He made his moves and witnessed the exact moment Peter became aware of the outcome.

Peter tipped over his king. "I resign."

It was over. He had his victory. If only he could've shared this moment with Maria. If only she had waited. He was almost through with this strange man.

The spectators applauded, but neither man rose to acknowledge them. The judges kept their distance. Angelo wondered again whether they were somehow in league with Peter.

"Well, you passed," Peter said.

"I wasn't in it to pass any tests or even to win with this tournament. I was here to beat you!"

"Of course you were. Thank you." He stood up, extending his hand.

Angelo stood, ignoring the offering. "Tell me about the letter. How do you know my father and who the hell are you?"

"Shall we go somewhere a little more private?"

Angelo had forgotten about the audience. He turned to them and nodded. He saw Maria in the front row, shaking her head. She looks sad. He must have been so focused on Peter, on the game, he hadn't noticed her. He smiled at her. Her presence proved she still loved him. When he was finished with Peter, he'd tell her he'd give up the game, forever. He had won the game and the girl.

He followed Peter off the stage and to the privacy of the practice room. The judges kept everyone else out. The two of them took the same seats they had occupied before the tournament had begun. Angelo pulled out the letter and held it up. "Tell me about this. It was written… by—"

"Your father."

"Yes, my father."

"He originally sent that letter to me as a challenge. Shortly after your mother died he became obsessed with the game. He knew of me from a tournament we had both attended. He was eliminated, so we never played, but he became fixated on me. I was going to ignore the challenge, but a case worker took an interest in your family. So I played him."

"You won?"

Peter steepled his fingers. "Of course."

"In your addition to my father's letter, you wrote that you knew why he really came to the States."

"To protect you from me."
"I… don't understand."
"He feared if I were in your life you would obsess over the game the way he had. So he ran here hoping for a fresh start. I could not allow that. I had to stop his influence."
Angelo jumped to his feet, teeth bared. "What do you mean by stop his influence?"
"What? You look like you want to kill me. You can if you want. I am through with this body. Of course, you will be arrested."
"Did you kill my father?"
"No. But it did make my job easier."
Angelo took a deep breath before sinking back onto his seat. He was going to get through this. He would not surrender to dark thoughts. "What the hell are you talking about—you're through with your body?"
"Do you not find it strange I look different from the person you played years ago?"
"I… guess I just sort of knew it was you. Sophia thought she might know you to."
"Might is not good enough. Only someone with your level of intuition would have known for sure. I look different because the body I am wearing is nothing more than a conveyance. I change it occasionally for anonymity. We grow them from acquired DNA.  Long ago my race developed various ways to transport a sentient mind."
"Are you saying you're some kind of alien?"
"Like you and your father, only not from Mexico, from quite a bit further." He pointed to a corner of the room. "I was born about 175 light years in that direction."
It came from deep within him, like moves from a game, the knowledge that what he was hearing was somehow true. "Why do you hide?"
"We don't like to taint the sample with knowledge of an observer. I am here to make the final determination on contact."
"How do you decide?"
"I look for people like you. Only I haven't found any, until now. The first time we met you weren't quite what I was looking for, but I saw potential. Let us call it intuition, a hunch if you like—something my people are very good at—but I felt an unprecedented second chance was called for, so I gave you time to blossom."
He thought about Sophia and how she'd never gotten her second chance. "How many others are there?"
"It does not matter. They all let me down."
A knot tightened in Angelo's stomach. "Who are the case workers… you said one took an interest in my family?"
"They help me search. They are the few on my team devoted to interacting with your species. They develop skills to blend in. You can not differentiate them from anyone else on this planet." His lips curled. "I could never do their job—the company of humans… makes me uncomfortable. I try to spend as little time with them as possible. I believe the common expression is I lack people skills."
"Have you made a decision? About contact?"
"Let me tell you a little about my people and I think you will figure the answer for yourself. My people are a warrior race." He sighed. "Or rather, we were once. After millennia of warfare, individuals with the innate sense of strategy began popping up. By simply observing troop placement they could calculate the outcome of the battle. The general with the inferior position would surrender before a single shot was fired. Our people learned to take preventative measures and avoid confrontations altogether. Apparently, we evolved out of the need for bloodshed."
"You don't sound happy. That's supposed to be good. Right?"
He frowned. "I suppose. Finding you made me conclude you are a little too much like us."
Peter brushed imaginary lint off of his jacket sleeve. "I am sure you have figured out the correct next move for my people."
Angelo nodded. His heart was in his throat. He saw the problem in his head and understood. "If there are more like me, we are a potential threat."
"You don't have to worry about your personal safety. The process will be gradual: a slow attrition of your people, a new disease here and a famine there. It will probably be blamed on global warming. There will be an overall slowdown in the rate of child births. There won't be enough evolutionary time for your race to develop into something we have to worry about."
Angelo looked to the doorway. Maria stood there. How long has she been there? How did she get past the judges?
Peter followed Angelo's gaze. "She was hoping you wouldn't show up. She had me convinced I was wasting my time on you. I would have left you alone if you had walked away from this tournament. I am glad for your obsession, because now I finally get to leave this place. My whole team does." Peter rose from the table, looked down at his king lying on the board. "Congratulations on your victory." He stepped around Maria and left.
Before Maria trailed Peter out, he saw tears in her blue eyes. That can't be right. Her eyes are chestnut brown. "But I won," Angelo said.

THE END