Tactics of Conquest

by Barry N. Malzberg

  The champion was trembling when he appeared before the board; indeed, by appearing five minutes before the start of our scheduled round I was able to stand by the board to greet him and my gesture of seating him with a rather officious air was both so graceless and audacious as to bring various oohs, aahs and moans from the assembled crowd.

  The champion as he dropped sullenly into his seat heard those groans and tried to give no visible acknowledgment, preserving that icy demeanor for which he is most famous, but I could detect a tremor through the cheekbones and his hand, as it moved forward to grasp the White Queen’s Pawn, was not entirely steady. I instantly proceeded to set up a devastating middle-of-the-board attack.

  By the seventh move it was obvious that I had him in the deepest imaginable straits. A hasty Queen-side development had wrecked his Pawn formation; a questionable Queen’s Gambit had left him open-file in a way which enabled me to bring pressure on his King side which was nearly irresistible. Although the champion in all but title has been renowned for the rapidity of his play, almost always leaving more than an hour on his clock after forty moves, almost always moving within three minutes of the start of his clock, he had used up forty-six minutes for those first seven moves, twelve of them on the sixth move alone. As I made my eighth move, springing free a Knight that in another four moves would force him into a hasty Queen-side castle, I saw despair vault like flame into his eyes and then he had bolted from the board, using up valuable clock-time to head for the backstage area where he stayed for several moments, emerging in a slow, aged stagger, seating himself before the board again with a sigh, reaching out with trembling hand to move a Pawn. I knew then I had him. (I had never been able to look ahead more clearly; I was never more in control of my game; I felt prescience, that rare power which even in tournament chess occurs perhaps once in every one hundred games.)

  I was going to inflict upon the champion his first defeat in official grandmaster play in some eight years. In so doing I was not only going to smash him, and destroy him utterly (because I knew that his psychic makeup was fragile), but I was going to measurably advance my own career; I would be for all time now The Man Who Had Beaten The Champion, and this would measurably increase my own following, increase the sales of my own books (which had, regretfully, done very poorly in the marketplace due to Louis’ corrupt appropriation of my own ideas, which halved my prospective audience), even raise my tournament fees. I might be able henceforth to ask for five hundred dollars, perhaps even seven hundred fifty dollars expense money in return for consent to enter a tournament. At the thought of this an unseemly, almost megalomaniacal cackle came from the depths of my gut. I was able to keep it down only with utmost concentration, and it was with a physical effort that I prevented myself from rubbing my hands and literally laughing aloud with the pleasure of it. Rio, Buenos Aires, and Moscow faded from me now; there was only the reality of New York, my home city, and the place of my prospective ascension. At the age of forty-eight years, seven months, two days and some hours I stood alone before the throne-room of chess, on the verge of entry.

  I looked up then, planning to sweep the board for my next inevitable move, and my eyes, almost as if by accident, caught those of the champion.

  He hung over the board like a misshapen thing, his posture a parody of some beast’s. From those eyes, however, shined a most unholy light, and looking at those eyes, gauging for the first time the effect of what I had done to him, I suddenly in a rush understood everything, understood even the roots of the so-called Monarchial Miseries.

  The champion was a wounded animal; the champion was some great beast thrashing in a trap, but it was not a dignified entrapment. Rather, it was the most squalous and miserable kind of pit in which he was thrashing and his eyes as they looked up at me bespoke a fear so great that I found myself tearing away from that glance, looking desperately through the room to find the source which could inspire such enormous fear—but there was only me, the chesspieces, and the fascinated spectators. Returning then to his gaze I understood everything, even the roots of the champion’s power: He could not be beaten because the fear of beating him was that it would destroy him. Utterly discommoded, weeping, screaming, he would collapse over the board, the pieces hurled every which way, his child’s screams radiating through the hall. And I could not do it to him. I could not beat him because I could not, looking at those eyes, be responsible for what would happen to him then.

  And so the source of the Monarchial Miseries was not the power of the champion but his weakness, the exposure of that warped, broken caricature within ourselves which might have made us chess players, might have not, it does not matter. Tearing free the layers of self, the champion was most dreadful and grotesque, a sight which could not be borne for it was not for sane men ... and dragged into his eyes, slamming down all of the tubes and ridges of himself, I knew that I could not beat him, dared not beat him, would not be responsible for what would happen if he lost this game. I could not do it. Pity me, gentlemen; from the precipice of final accomplishment I drew back. I could not destroy him. I simply could not destroy him.

  And so, locked in that position over the board, huddled into myself, I underwent that moment of insight, that moment attenuating itself over a long period of time, swaddling me like a blanket. Faint little moans came from the champion, burps and gasps and little colicky sounds like a smothered baby. Then, shaking my head, I tried to grasp one of my pieces, found it curiously slippery, dropped the piece (it was the Knight again) and picked up the Queen itself, the Queen having an unusually grainy feel to it, the little gnarled head of it between my fingers, the blind eyes of the Queen cutting holes through my fingers, and then, pushing it slowly, propelling that Queen across the board, I placed it, gentlemen, I placed it en prise to his Queen’s Bishop, losing the Queen for a mere Knight, sacrificing the exchange with a vengeance. Then as the champion’s entire aspect changed, as his eyes gleamed fire, as his knees began to beat like wings underneath the table, I stood, stood in New York as I had stood in Rio, Buenos Aires and Moscow and said to him in perfect flat tones, “I resign, I resign,” and walked from the room. The spectators gasped in awe, the judges were confused, the referee appalled. And there in my room on the second story I pounded my cot and cried for hours, doing in private, I realized later, what the champion would have done in public—but no difference, no difference; I had looked upon the long corridors which streaked out from my prospective victory over him, and I had found them unbearable.

  I knew then that I had no career.

  If the Overlords had not come I might have been out of tournament chess within six months anyway. My game had radically declined since that date. Monarchial Miseries indeed! I tell you I could not face it.

  Now you know my piteous little confidence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Queen Knight to Queen Bishop Three

  So the aim must be to develop my minor pieces quickly while Louis falls into the lure of launching an early, unsound attack. The incident with the champion was extremely galling and quite central to my existence but I am sorry already that I went into it at such length. I do not wish to give the wrong impression of myself or my game. My game is as strong as ever; stronger now for the fire which has forged it. It was distressing to lose to him in such a fashion, but the important thing is that I could have beaten him; the means to beat him lay within my hands and it was pity which led me to turn away, pity and an excess of compassion.

  Actually my game has not declined in the least but has improved through the years and I was in top-flight form when this important series of matches began. Now, of course, I am even better. Ignore what I said previously; it is what is called (in the Roman Catholic religion, I believe) a “false confession”—a confession inspired not by truth but by a kind of cunning. But before the eyes of God a false confession has no credibility, neither raising nor lowering the speaker in His estimation. It would be best to put all of this out of mind and go on ahead as I have always endeavo
red. Setting a good example; doing the best that I can despite certain grievous personality lacks of which I am marginally aware. One must go on at all costs, particularly when the fate of the universe and all the forces of good are concerned. Ignore it. Ignore all that. Concentrate upon the developing drama.

  The aim is to allow Louis to lash out in an abortive attack which will shortly blunt itself; then it will be time, from my closely coordinated position, to lash out and destroy him. Patience is the key to winning chess. Slowly I push my chair away from the table, yawning and rather self-consciously scratching myself to show the assembled billions that I am in control of myself, slightly bored, a little distracted and in need of some refreshment backstage. Surely they can see nothing strange in my going backstage while Louis is still there; it is not my fault, and with my move completed I am entitled to a rest. No one will see anything unnatural in this at all. I am convinced. I am convinced that they are convinced as well.

  So my chair goes back on the floor with a faint scratching noise audible to several billions of creatures, all fellow spirits, however, under the eyes of the controlling force in the universe. I hasten backstage, inhaling great drafts of air to calm my respiration. Backstage is vacant except for Louis who stands amidst the vast trays of food which have been set up for us: terrestrial-type food from all the worlds: tasty little Jovian lice, neat snappers and poppers from the asteroid belt, a delicious little Sirian parasite which is initially arid but which explodes to warmth and liquidity when crushed. We have eaten well throughout our tournament. Say this about the Overlords if nothing else, they have provided for our physical needs very nicely indeed. The fact is that Louis and I have gained three or four pounds apiece throughout this short period of time; there is a double chin extruding from his beard of which I have never previously been aware. My own belly tends to shake somewhat ponderously when unencumbered. When all of this is over I will have to go on a diet, bring myself into fighting trim once again. Chess is an athletic endeavor, as I have already said, and there is something vaguely disgusting about a champion who is out of trim.

  “Come here,” Louis says, beckoning to me with a forefinger. It is a characteristic of his which I have never liked, in fact always found disgusting: the way in which he appropriates one’s identity, a certain officiousness of demeanor. “Come over here,” he repeats hoarsely, beckoning, taking a breadstick from the table and eating it ostentatiously. Terrestrial-type food. “This is delicious,” he says, “I’ve never really had anything like this before. This is a new one on this stop. Whoever they are, they’ve done well for us.” He casts a glance ceilingward, makes a motion with his other hand, and all comes clear. He is checking for listening devices, making sure that we are not observed.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I find myself saying. “If they’re listening to us, they’re certainly listening. There’s no way that we can stop them and no way either that we can find out whether or not they are. You’re being quite childish, Louis.” Truly, I had forgotten until this moment how much I hated him; I had managed to feel even a little pity for him in foreshadowing his imminent defeat but now, looking at this repulsive creature nibbling at his breadsticks, I realize that Louis’ position as the defender of the forces of evil is not at all casual. He is beyond a doubt a creature of Satan himself; that great snake in his coils, the world, yearns and bursts. “Forget it, Louis,” I say again, “if they are listening, they’re listening; that’s all there is to it. What do you want to talk about?”

  His eyes shift, dazzlingly. “I’m glad you came,” he says. “I was afraid that you were going to do something foolish, like not taking me seriously; that you wouldn’t come. But you’re showing good sense, David.”

  “I moved my Queen Knight to Queen Bishop Three,” I say rather sarcastically. “If I were you I’d get back to the board.”

  “Well, I will,” he says rather petulantly, chewing on the remains of the breadstick, exuding a little trail of crumbs from the left side of his mouth. “I certainly will I have every intention of getting back to that board, and furthermore, David, your attack is very unsound; you cannot counter a Ruy Lopez in the manner you’ve adopted. But this is far more important than a chess match and I’ve got to talk to you. It will only take a few moments.”

  “What do you want, Louis?” I say, hands on hips. Diet strictures are beginning right now; I would not be caught eating in his presence. “Just tell me what this is all about and quickly, if you please. They’re coming back instantly.”

  “I’ve got some dismaying information,” he says, his eyes shifting once again floor to ceiling, and then he extends a hand, takes another breadstick, motions for me to come closer. His tongue lolls on the stick. “They lied to us,” he says in a hoarse whisper, covering the words with the sound of crunching, “this isn’t what we think it is.”

  “Oh? Come again?”

  “No sir, we are not playing for the fate of the universe at all. The Overlords aren’t what they represent themselves to be: Actually, they’re a very minor religious sect which controls a small portion of the galaxy. We’re not playing for good and evil as they say we are.”

  “Oh?” I say again. It occurs to me, looking at him, that the man is mad. Perhaps he is madder than the Overlords. “Then what are we playing for?” I say to humor him.

  “For ourselves, David! This is just an exhibition for the entertainment of an audience of many billions. The winner will be celebrated as champion and the loser put to death in a public torture that will be broadcast through the universe. In process, of course.”

  “How horrible.”

  “This talk about good and evil, the fate of the galaxies, that’s just to build us up and get us excited. There’s no such thing. As I say, they’re just a small, very fanatical religious sect who every now and then, over a millennium, are indulged by the central bureaucracy. We’re just playing a competition, that’s all.”

  I should find this information stunning, but somehow it passes through me, much as water would go through a sieve. I have never given Louis much credibility, of course; this is part of the problem, but the other part is that I know the man is wrong. I know the consequences of the match. “Where did you find this out?” I say.

  His eyes turn furtive. “I can’t tell you that,” he says, “it’s the only thing I can’t tell you, but believe me the information is true. It’s just an exhibition, David.” He finishes the breadstick in a choking swallow, reaches for another handful of lice. “We’ve been lied to, manipulated, and the joke all the time has been on us. This has nothing to do with anything except the match itself. It’s just chess. Not life. That’s all.”

  “If you won’t tell me your source of information,” I say, “how can I believe you?”

  My voice has been somewhat louder than his and Louis raises a sudden, frantic hand to his lips in a “sh!”, then hurls a fistful of lice into his throat. “Keep quiet,” he says. “I think that we can deal with them, but not if you shout your head off, you moronic idiot.”

  “You know, Louis,” I say, “I’ve never really liked you. It’s been forty-three years and some months and the fact is I’ve never liked you at all.”

  “I don’t give a damn whether I’m liked by you, David, or not. I have no interest in that at all,” Louis says pompously. “Like or dislike has nothing to do with the issue, don’t you understand? I’m telling you the truth; if you don’t like the source, it’s your problem.”

  “Listen now,” I say reasonably, “just listen.” I glance quickly around the backstage area; the high, fluorescent boards, the long table on which the foods are set up, the dull, waxen finish of the floors, the airy, gleaming ducts through which the terrestrial atmosphere pours. “They wouldn’t do something like this just to have a chess match, an individual competition. They wouldn’t have this kind of expense, this level of interest, for a simple match. No, Louis, you can’t face reality. There’s something in you: You don’t realize the consequences of this match, you’re n
ot strong enough to. You’ve always been the weaker anyway, and now you’ve constructed a fantasy to wall you off from pressure. But the fact is, and I know it on the best authority, that this is Armageddon. This is it. The big A. Apocalypse. Shake and snake, angels and all that, right over the board.”

  “No.” He bites his lips. “No, it isn’t that at all. Oh, how can I get you to understand? How can I get you to accept the fact that we’ve been conned, both of us?”

  “You can’t.”

  “But I have to,” he says intensely. “They knew they could only get the best out of us by selling us some line about apocalypse or Armageddon, and you’ve fallen for it. I did too until I had a chance to see the truth, but then I’ve always been flexible enough to change and you’re not. We’ve been gulled. They’ve used us for their own ends, and at this very moment they’re laughing at us.”

  He flings a few remaining lice from his hands, wipes his palms, reaches toward the Sirian Delight on a higher shelf and helps himself to a small dab, his ugly face in ecstasy as the ooze hits him. Sirian Delight is very warm. “Humph,” he says choking, and swallows. “You’ll learn sooner or later, David.”

  “All right,” I say. “All right, assuming that this is true, which I don’t concede for a moment, but assuming that it’s true nonetheless, since I’m willing to humor you for the moment, what difference does it make? The match must go on.”

  He backs from me, his simple features radiating astonishment, little squirts of the Delight coming from the corners of his mouth. “Are you quite serious?” he says. “Is that serious?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “David,” he says earnestly, “you must be insane. I’ve known for years that you were mad, all of us in FIDE knew it but we took pity, and joshed you along, and shielded you. But this is really too much now, it’s ridiculous.”