by Phil Geusz
The entire lobby seemed to be awash in Imperial green; there were rigidly-formal cadets and officers standing around everywhere! I scowled at the presence of the latter; we’d stood formed up at the docking-ring for two hours yesterday waiting to greet them as well their cadets, but they’d never shown. Now, looking around the room and meeting one by one their cold eyes, I decided that this had been no accident. They’d wanted to humiliate us.
“Well!” James declared overly-loudly as we stood there with the door open in front of us. “Looks like there’s plenty to go around. Eh, Captain?”
I fear that it took me a moment to recognize that I was being addressed by my cadet-rank. “Yes, sir!” I agreed, also a bit too loudly. “Shall we head on into the gaming room and set up shop?”
“The sooner we begin, the sooner it’ll be over,” James agreed. “God, I need another drink! Why anyone would hold these games at such an uncivilized hour, I can’t imagine.” He looked up at Professor Lambert. “Sir, you don’t have another hangover pill on you by chance, do you?”
Our strategy professor had spent months teaching us to do the unexpected, grasp every possible advantage, and fight dirty at every opportunity. War was of such grand, sweeping importance to a society, he taught, that the ends can and quite often do justify the means. And what was gaming but war in miniature? So he didn’t have any trouble at all playing along. “I fear not, James,” he replied, blinking sickly in the bright light. “I took the last of them myself.”
“Shit!” James swore, again deliberately breaking one of our strictest regulations. “I’ll have to find a vendor-bunny!” Then he shook his head and stepped off the elevator, leading us first into and then through the thickest knot of Imperials as if they didn’t exist. “Tell me,” he declared turning to the nearest Yan as I struggled to keep a straight face. “Were those girls from Benedict Four as good as their pimp claimed? How about the little boy? I can’t wait to hear!”
I licked my nose and followed close behind, stopping for a moment to scratch and thus spread my shedding fur far and wide among the oh-so-perfect uniforms. While doing so I carefully noted the gaping mouths and wide, shocked eyes of our suddenly babyish and innocent-looking opponents.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d decided that a grin just might be a good answer to swagger.
We got our first rude shock in the gameroom itself. Rather to our surprise, no less than thirty chairs were packed into each team’s designated area. Professor Lambert went ballistic at this, though you had to know him well to appreciate how angry he was—on the outside he remained cool as a cucumber. “I don’t understand,” he declared to the nearest New Geneva gaming official. “What are all these seats doing here? We’re not allowing spectators in the team area, are we?”
“Why, no!” the official replied. “Of course not!”
“Then,” our coach continued, his voice urbane but his eyes icy, “won’t you please remove all but six? From both sides, of course.”
The official shook his head. “Would you have me leave most of your opponents standing, sir?”
It was right about then that the awful truth began to sink in on us. The Imperial academy was many times as large as ours, and on top of that wargaming was a long-established and presumably prestigious activity there. So, their team was simply that much larger than ours.
“There are only four events scheduled, plus a possible tiebreaker!” the professor sputtered, knocked off balance at last. “What possible justification can there be—“
“Sir!” the Geneva man interrupted. “Your team was invited, and so was theirs. They came, and so did you. That’s how it is.” He turned and looked at the wall-clock. “Opening ceremonies are in ten minutes. If you wish to register a formal protest, I suggest you hurry. But I can assure you that it won’t do you any good. I’m the chairman of the rules committee, you see. If you wanted more players, you should’ve brought them.”
Our instructor’s shoulders spread like the hood of an angry cobra, then very slowly and deliberately he deflated himself. “I see,” he replied, bowing formally. “Thank you.” His eyes narrowed, then met those of the Yan brothers. “I’m sure we’ll adapt to circumstances somehow.”
Opening ceremonies, like most such events, were a bunch of useless bushwa so far as I was concerned. Professor Lambert delivered an insincere speech about how competition can help heal old wounds, while the Imperial coach—an elderly full admiral who’d won several real-life battles—glorified the art of strategy as the highest calling of humanity. Then it was time for Heinrich and I to shake hands with our opponents, sit down at our chessboards and begin.
My opponent was a pasty-looking young man who looked more like he belonged in a group home than at an Imperial military academy. His uniform was stained with egg yolk, his face was covered with the kind of sores that humans called ‘acne’, and he kept making odd facial expressions for no reason that I could discern. He even smelled bad, though not so much that a human nose would pick up on it. Yet an uncanny, distorted intelligence blazed in his eyes, and he seemed far more at home sitting behind the chessboard than he had while standing at attention. His name was Crager, according to the plate on his chest, and he was a cadet-corporal. Rapidly I spun everything I knew about chess, chess prodigies and military academies through my mind, and came up with what I believed was the right answer. Cadet Crager was probably both a ringer and a savant. While he might well be enrolled at the Academy, all he probably ever did was play chess, chess, chess under the finest coaches available. Instead of graduating to become an officer he was destined for the Imperial team, where he’d continue to compete for the greater glory of his Emperor. This, I also realized, was the beauty of having so many team members. They could specialize, while we were perforce generalists. Heck, he probably hadn’t even marched onto the Station with the rest—he didn’t look half strong enough!
Instead of letting my dismay show, I did what Professor Lambert always advised and dithered as long as possible while I thought things through. Cadet Crager was unbeatable by conventional means, I decided. Or at least he was unbeatable by the likes of me. Nor was chess a game one could effectively cheat at. That left me only one worthwhile strategic aim—to lose in such a way as to further my ultimate goal as much as possible. And that goal was of course to win the series overall. With that understanding, at last all came clear. So, once I was plenty good and ready, I tapped the New Geneva man’s left hand…
…and drew the black chessmen.
“Hooray!” the Imperials screamed, stamping their feet and making as much of the insignificant victory as possible. Even poor Cadet Crager clapped his hands in an infantile manner and smiled so wide he drooled. The psychological pressure in the room was palpable; you could cut it with a knife. For a fleeting second I wanted to get up and run, to go hide in a place where I didn’t have to face swaggering Imperials and struggle against freaks in battles that I was destined to lose no matter what. Then I reminded myself for the first time in a very long while that the Imperial system had killed my father, and was even now busily looting my once-beautiful homeworld.
After that I was pitiless, and made my coach proud.
Wargaming chess differed slightly from the traditional tournament version. The basics remained unchanged; all the pieces moved the same way, the board still had sixty-four squares, and the ultimate objective remained the enemy king. No timer was employed, however, because it was impractical to use one in certain other wargames. And, again because it was useful in other games, a notepad and pencil was provided.
Rather to my surprise, Cadet Crager (I never did learn his first name—it was almost as if he’d never had one) took voluminous notes from his very first move— the traditional two-square advance of his king’s pawn. He used a sort of dot-dash code with circles and squares thrown in here and there, clearly meant to be incomprehensible to his opponent. Recognizing a standard opening, I replied automatically to his next few moves…
…b
ut only very slowly, taking plenty of time with my own notepad. On which, inspired by James’s earlier ploy, I began to sketch a large-breasted, long-legged bunnygirl in the skimpiest clothing possible. Lying on her back, with her legs spread wide and a seductive smile painted on her face.
At first Cadet Crager didn’t seem to notice. He was a glandularly-normal male, however, and an adolescent one at that. As I filled in the details (my bunnygirl looked amazingly like Frieda, though of course no one else could know it) his face grew redder and redder. Then he began shifting uncomfortably in his seat. I was shifting too, of course. But poor socially inept Crager, who’d certainly never kissed a girl in his life and probably had given up all hope of ever doing so, went slowly mad as I roughed in hard nipples behind ‘Frieda’s’ halter-top, wrinkled her shorts just-so in a not-so-subtle hint of what lay beyond...
…and, quite unexpectedly, snatched up a knight when he left it foolishly exposed.
There was a loud groan among the Imperials when that happened, and one of their officers stood up and shouted at Professor Lambert. Our coach merely stood and smiled as the Imperial raged about smut and decadence and indecency. “It’s David’s notepad,” my coach replied in calm tones. “Not yours. He’s allowed to do whatever he likes with it. I’m quite certain that he’s violated neither the rules nor any local law.” His smile widened. “Though at the rate he’s going, he may well yet push the limits of the latter.”
And, to my secret glee, the New Geneva referee agreed with him!
By then ‘Frieda’ was about done, so I drew suggestive carrots in various stages of engorgement around the borders of the piece and took a rook in the process. “This is absurd!” the Imperial admiral raved as I removed the piece from the board. By then he was practically foaming at the mouth. “I refuse to participate any longer in this low-minded mockery!”
“Then you concede, sir?” the referee asked.
The admiral’s mouth opened, then closed twice before he could find the proper words. “I don’t concede; I withdraw!”
“That’s a concession in my book,” the official replied. “So I hereby declare Cadet Captain Birkenhead the winner by default.”
Poor Cadet Crager didn’t know how to handle it; I suspect it may’ve been the first time he ever lost an official game. Certainly he wasn’t emotionally normal, and I felt genuine pity for him as he grabbed up the pieces and sent them flying about the room, shouting and cursing and drumming his fists on the table. Meanwhile I completed my drawing by sketching in the title ‘Mate’ across the top of the paper. Then I tore it off the pad, stuffed it into my pocket and stood to take my formal victory bow beside the New Geneva official. The room was absolutely filled with booing and cursing by then; only James and one of the Yans and Professor Lambert stood applauding and laughing their faces off. Poor Heinrich was locked in a match of epic proportions on the other side of the room; he didn’t even seem to notice my victory, which I certainly understood. But… Where was the other Yan off to?
Probably, I decided, it was best if I didn’t know.
31
The next morning we were up and at it again. But right from the getgo things took on a much more serious tone. There was no lighthearted mockery as we once again walked across the lobby and directly to the gaming area, and the glares that met us along the way were uglier and icier than ever. We were tied 1-1 after the first day, and our opponents didn’t like it at all. Apparently they’d had their hearts set on a sweep. We met their gazes with quiet pride, or at least all of us except Heinrich did. My unfortunate team-mate fought a noble battle indeed, but was finally forced to concede on the fifty-sixth move. It’d been an epic match, and no one blamed him for the loss. Nor was he anything less than courteous and sincere in congratulating me—there wasn’t a petty bone in Heinrich’s body. But still… It rankled, and rankled deep. Especially since it seemed likely that I’d been matched against the stronger player. So Heinrich was full of fire, and the embers behind his eyes blazed every bit as hot as those of our opponents. Indeed, some of them were compelled to turn away.
Today it was my turn to carry the code book. I brought it along with several other mathematics texts, and planned to consult it throughout the day while doing practice-problems. Card-game tournaments tended to run even longer than chess matches, and were just as boring for non-participants. I could only hope, like everyone else, that the Geneva people would announce that poker was the game of the day. While the Yans could and did perform well at everything from canasta to contract bridge, poker was their true strength and love. The professor informed us that most tournament masters chose poker because it was considered the purest and most highly-developed of all strategy card games, but I worried right up until the moderator walked out to the podium carrying four equal-sized stacks of chips.
The first hands were lightly-bet and tentative as the players felt each other out. Not too many chips changed hands as the teams concentrated on deceptively simple games like five and seven-card stud. Then, not long before lunchtime, things suddenly escalated over a more complex hand of seven-card deuces wild. On the final down-card both Yans raised against each other again and again, catching the Imperials in the middle. “Call!” the Imperials replied every time, meeting each other’s eyes worriedly. The pot grew and grew. Yan Chang laid down five kings…
…and instantly the Imperials used one of their challenges, accusing our team of cheating and demanding a complete scan of the cards and table, plus a review of all holofilms.
I winced inwardly at this, knowing my friends as well as I did. Externally, however, my face revealed nothing. Nor did those of the Yans as the Geneva people obligingly swept their sensors back and forth and a panel of experts retained just for this purpose from the local casinos studied the players’ every recorded move. Rather to my surprise, however, everything came back clean and Yan Chang was awarded the fat pot.
The Imperials, to say the least, weren’t pleased. Apparently they’d somehow caught wind of the Yan brother’s flair for creative play, and reckoned they’d be caught at the first challenge. But the Yans were far more clever than that. As team captain, in my heart I’d counted whatever game they played as won before it began. And they didn’t disappoint me.
It was just after lunch that a second large pot developed. This time the game was seven card stud. Yan Ho was the dealer, and soon the stakes grew to epic proportions. The twins were at their most impressive. They munched roast-beef sandwiches, drank hot tea and raised, raised, raised at every opportunity, all the while not displaying even a trace of emotion. Once again Chang won the hand, this time by virtue of high-carding the Imperials. He had a full house consisting of nines over twos, while theirs was fives over fours. At first there was consternation among the cadets and officers on the other side of the room. Then the Imperials used up their second and last appeal, calling for another complete scan. I was plenty worried, because last night after dinner I’d seen one of the girls who’d served lunch loitering in the corridor outside our rooms. I should’ve had more faith in my teammates, however. The scanner did indeed emit a loud buzz as a solido card was detected, said card being programmed as a five of hearts. But…
…the card was not only found in an Imperial hand, but was exactly what they needed to complete the full house they’d raised so aggressively on.
“You’re disqualified!” the Geneva Station man declared to the Imperial players—possession of a cheating device was forbidden at all times, without exception. It didn’t matter that the Imperial team was who’d made the appeal, or that they held a losing hand. This time there was even more shouting and outrage, with some not-so-muffled threats and cursing thrown into the mix in as well. The Imperials requested—and got—a second film review by the experts. Even the professional casino security men looked worriedly at the Yans when no clear evidence could be found of them planting the card. None of that mattered to us Royalists, however. We stood and whistled and applauded like little kids—even Professor
Lambert! The all-important scoreboard rolled over to read three to one, in our favor.
And that, we students of high-level strategy understood with acute clarity, was all that really mattered.
32
Because the poker game broke up so unexpectedly early we young strategists found ourselves with an afternoon to kill. With Professor Lambert’s blessing we decided to make the best of it by throwing ourselves an impromptu party. Pizza was ordered and laid out in one of our rooms and video games set up in a second. A third was reserved for poor Heinrich, who was determined to study, study, study after his loss no matter how much fun the rest of us were having. I didn’t eat pizza, of course, and planned on getting by with a few mouthfuls of hay that the maid-bunny had thoughtfully left me for emergencies. But then at almost the last minute Professor Lambert walked in waved his arms for attention. “I’m sorry,” he declared. “There’s been a change of plans.” He looked at James and I, who were currently teamed against the Yans at a game called “Mystique”. We were losing badly, and as always seemed to be the case when playing against the twins, were having the devil of a time figuring out exactly why. “The Imperial coach just called me in my room,” he explained. “We’ve been invited to dinner. Just three of us, I fear—the two ranking cadets and myself.”