Chess With a Dragon

by David Gerrold

  “Uh, no. Um—at least, I don’t think so.”

  “Then why should I answer them? Perhaps I should ask you an interesting question?”

  “Um . . . perhaps we could trade questions.”

  “Trade questions?” The Dragon looked as if it wanted to raise an eyebrow.

  “Well, uh—it’s a game we play on my planet. I show you mine, you show me yours.”

  “But I am not interested in seeing yours.”

  “Oh. Well. Um. Er. Okay. May I ask you a small question anyway? A question of no importance.”

  “Yesss?”

  “Why do they say . . . ‘Never play chess with a Dragon’?”

  “Yesss, a small question of no importance. Perhaps . . . it is because of the tradition.”

  “The tradition?”

  “The tradition that the winner gets to eat the loser.”

  “I see.” Yake smiled nervously. He wondered if he should declare his intentions as peaceful. “I have no intention of eating you,” he offered.

  “I know that, yesss.” The Dragon smiled. The effect was ghastly. “The converse, however, is not true.”

  “Uh. Yes. Thank you. I think.”

  “You have other questionsss?” The Dragon swung its head around expectantly. Yake jumped back in surprise.

  “Uh, yes, I do. Have other questions, that is. Maybe they could be interesting to you, maybe not. Um, you know who we are, don’t you?”

  “Yesss. We call you the—the—excuse me, the word does not translate. We call you ‘the presumptuous food.’”

  “Yes, of course. We understand our uniqueness in the universe. But let me ask you this: isn’t it of some interest to you to know how we got here? How mammals became intelligent on our world instead of insects or reptiles?”

  The Dragon did not even consider it. “No,” it rumbled. “The galaxy is big. Accidents happen. If that is all you wish to discuss, then this shall be a very disappointing afternoon indeed.” The Oracle began to raise itself up on its forward legs. Yake could see the ground sagging beneath its weight. “At least, I shall have the minor satisfaction of discovering if you are enjoyable food or not.”

  “Sir—” Yake wondered if the term were correct. Never mind. He spoke quickly. “There is another question I want to ask, a much more important question—a very interesting question. I mean, interesting to my species at least.”

  “At least, yesss.” The Dragon paused. “Go on.”

  “It’s the indenture—I mean, our debt. We uh, we think we’ve been slimed.”

  “Ssslimed?”

  “Suckered. Played for fools. Cheated. By the Dhroo.”

  “Ahh, yesss. The Dhroo.” The Dragon chewed over the thought with relish. “Yesss. A not-unfamiliar circumstance. And you wish an anssswer, yesss?”

  “Uh, no. Not exactly. Um, we’re really not able to pay in the currency that you’re most likely to request.”

  “An asssumption, but not a stupid one. Mammallsss. . . .” sighed the Dragon. “You think with your glands. Well, then . . . what are you asssking?”

  “We can’t afford to buy your help. And we’re not asking you for a solution, because we can’t afford to pay you for it. Nor can we ask you for your advice, because we can’t afford that either. No. What I want to ask is much smaller.”

  “Yesss?”

  “I want to ask if something is possible.”

  “You ask about . . . survival? Survival is always a possibility. So is the alternative.”

  “No. We already know that. What I want to know is—I mean, if this is a game—then so far, it’s been a very interesting game for my species. Very interesting. What I want to know is this: is there a way to make the game equally as interesting for the Dhroo?”

  “Ahhh,” said the Dragon. “A fine question. A very fine question.” It lowered itself back down to the ground and ruminated for a moment. It rumbled deep in its throat, a loud purring noise like the sound of an ancient subway train roaring through an underground tunnel.

  Yake waited patiently.

  At last, the Dragon looked up. “Yesss, there is a way.”

  Yake waited for the Dragon to go on. The Dragon quietly returned his gaze.

  “You are waiting for something else.”

  “You said there’s a way?”

  “Yesss. There is. You were waiting for a hint perhaps? It is too bad that you cannot afford to ask the question outright. But the price that we would require . . . you are better off not knowing.” The Dragon smiled broadly. Yake nearly fainted.

  “Perhaps—” continued the Dragon, “—you should consider this an opportunity to demonstrate the intelligence of your species. Knowing that there is a possibility should be of a goad to guarantee its discovery. And if you cannot discover the answer, then that too is an answer.”

  Yake pursed his lips, holding in the first reply that came to his mind. Instead, he nodded politely. “You have done us a great service.”

  “Perhapsss. And perhapsss not. Consider this. Losing a game is one thing; you can be eaten knowing that you have done your best. But losing a game when you know that there is a solution that you have not found is intolerable, because it suggests that even your best was not good enough. This might be a more expensive answer than you bargained for, little snack.”

  “I’ll—we’ll take that chance.”

  “Yesss, you will.”

  “Is there anything else that you can tell us?”

  “There is quite a bit that I can tell you. But I won’t. It is not interesting enough.” The Dragon paused, then it raised its head up and looked at Yake. “I will not eat you today, Yake Singh Browne. And perhapsss I will not eat you the next time either.”

  “The next—” Yake gulped. “—time?”

  “Yesss.” The Dragon lashed its tail around itself and looked directly at Yake. “The price that I require for this discussion is this: you must come back and tell me how work it all out.” It added, “That is . . . if you do.”

  “Thank you. Sir.” Yake began to back away.

  The Dragon lowered its head again and appeared to go to sleep. “Don’t . . . thank . . . me. . . .”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Yake’s heart-rate did not return to normal for two days.

  A Glass of Bheer

  The hour was tired and Yake was late. “The late Yake Singh Browne,” he muttered and sipped at his bheer. He made a face and put the glass back on the table in front of him.

  “Soon we will all be late,” agreed Madja.

  “You can put it on my tombstone,” said Anne Larson, brushing her graying hair back off her forehead. “Better late than never.” She giggled at the joke.

  Yake looked across at her. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight, Anne.”

  She hiccuped and giggled again.

  Yake and Madja, Anne and Nori, were the only four people left in the lounge. They all looked haggard.

  They had been sitting here and arguing for hours. Perhaps for days. No one remembered.

  The argument was a peripatetic orangutan, bouncing off the walls of their separate frustrations like a ping pong ball in a wind tunnel. The mere knowledge that an answer was possible was like a goad.

  Only . . . Yake was tired of being goaded. He wanted to experience a result once in a while too.

  He stared into his bheer unhappily. “I’d rather have beer,” he said. “I’m tired of the sacred ‘H.’ I’m tired of alcoholh.”

  Madja agreed with a sour nod. “Is same for me, but right now, I would just as happily settle for one straight answer.”

  “You have one straight answer. The Dragon says mate in four moves is possible.”

  “It did not say how. Is like famous story about Borozinsky—greatest chess player of his century—he drove opponent crazy this way. He said, ‘If you were any good, you would see that mate is possible in four moves and resign.’ Was no mate possible, but opponent died in frustration rather than admit he could not find it.”

&n
bsp; “Hmm,” said Yake. “Chess players can be nasty.”

  “Yah. Too bad this is not chess,” agreed Madja. “Chess, I could defeat whole herd of Dragons.”

  “Yeah, and then you’d have to eat them,” put in Larson, giggling. She looked positively tipsy.

  Madja frowned at her. “That would be easy part. I share them with you. But, no. This is not chess. This is—more like American game. Too much free-for-all. Not enough discipline. How can anyone play game that is all lies?”

  Yake looked up at her blearily. “What?”

  “Is not important. Was nasty shot.”

  “Cheap shot. Never mind. Say it again.”

  Madja shrugged. “I said, ‘Is not chess. Is American game. Too much free-for-all.’” She sipped at her vhodka.

  “No, you said something else—”

  She waved a hand. “That was nasty part. ‘How can anyone play game that is all lies?’” “You’re right, Madja! That is an American game. This isn’t chess! This is poker!”

  “Polka?”

  “Poker,” said Kasahara. “You know? The card game.”

  “Ahh, yes!” Madja grinned and said something in Russian.

  “They teach you that in the Navy?” asked Yake.

  “Among other things, da.”

  “I don’t know whether to be impressed or shocked.”

  “You learn to poker. I learn to swear. Which is more useful?”

  “Right now? Poker.”

  Madja looked uninterested.

  “Okay,” said Yake. “Maybe I’m wrong, but try this thought on anyway. This is a poker game—with two thousand sharpies, each of whom has brought his own deck and his own set of rules! Do you know what that means?”

  “You are about to explain it, no?”

  “It means that there are no rules. Only there are! But we get to make them up as we go! That’s how this game is played. Do you know what a good poker game needs?”

  “Good players?” asked Larson.

  “Nah. A fish. A sucker. Somebody with money who’s willing to believe whatever you tell him—especially when you tell him that you couldn’t possibly have the fourth ace, because you want to keep him in the game as long as he has money to lose. That’s us—we’re the poor fish in this game! Humanity! We’re the suckers! As long as we’re playing by their rules, we have to lose. It’s their game! We can’t win unless we change the rules on them—”

  “Yake,” Madja chose her words carefully. “I do not understand what you are saying. It sounds like you are suggesting that we break agreements here.”

  “No—I’m not. I’m suggesting that we . . . reinterpret the boundaries of those agreements to include the possibility that we could win a hand here too.”

  Madja did not look convinced.

  “You don’t understand, do you? This isn’t a game about playing by the rules. It’s a game about how cleverly you can cheat. If that’s the game, then cheating isn’t wrong, is it?”

  “Is interesting capitalist justification. Do they teach that at UCLA?”

  “USC. And I didn’t go there. Never mind. I just want to make this game a little less interesting for us and a little more interesting for everybody else.”

  “I do not see it, Yake.”

  Larson leaned across the table and laid one hand on Madja’s. “Think of it this way, dear. Everything is justified in the class struggle against the imperialist war-mongers.”

  “Is not good comparison, Larson. I am not sure that these creatures are really imperialists. Besides, imperialists on Earth are at least human. Theory is that human being should know better. In the act of oppressing the class struggle of the workers, they renounce the noblest part of their humanity and deserve to meet their fate on the gallows. But Dragons and slugs and talking turnips might not be capable of knowing better. In that case, we cannot take advantage of them—or we would be the oppressor.”

  Kasahara paused in the act of reheating his sahki. “Are you sure you’re a real Communist?”

  “I show you my card,” said Madja, standing up and unbuttoning her blouse pocket. “I carry it everywhere I go.”

  “Never mind,” interrupted Yake. “We’re off the track. Madja, maybe this is only a game to the other species because they don’t have as much at stake—but you’re the one who pointed out that the stakes in this game are human dignity. Maybe this game is about measuring your dignity by how clever you are, not by how honorable. Maybe honor is the booby prize.”

  “I had not thought of that,” Madja admitted. She fell silent. She looked sad at the idea, and for a moment even Yake felt sorry for her. She looked so . . . vulnerable. Abruptly, she looked up. “Is one thing wrong, Yake.”

  For just a moment, Yake hoped she was right. “Yes?”

  “Is assumption you are making here about InterChange. You keep saying is game. Is clever. Is very American clever. But is maybe sacrifice truth for clever, Yake. For one hundred and sixty-seven years, we have known what InterChange was—interstellar government, no? Now you are saying it is not?”

  Yake said, a little too quickly, “Maybe that hundred and sixty-seven years was the false assumption—” and immediately wished he hadn’t said it.

  Madja took it seriously. The color was draining from her face.

  “You are right, Yake,” she said finally. “We must question everything.” She looked to Yake again. “But if we question everything, we must question if game analogy is also accurate?”

  “I think that’s what we have to find out.”

  Kasahara said softly, “We’re going to have to make some very hard assumptions here.”

  Larson turned to him and asked, “Nori. Tell me something. What do you do if you’re losing a game?”

  Nori shrugged. “I pay my debts and go home.”

  “We can’t do that here. What else can you do?”

  “I don’t know poker that well.” Nori looked up. “Yake, you’re the expert. What do you do?”

  Larson shrugged. “I don’t know either. I’m no expert in Game Theory.”

  “Forget Game Theory. I’ll tell you what I’d do.” Yake leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. “I’d bring in the pros from Dover and kick some assets.”

  “The what?”

  “The ‘pros from Dover.’ It’s an American expression. It means—you bring in the power hitters. Um—you call for an expert.”

  “There are no experts here,” moaned Madja. Just capitalists. That is what makes the whole thing so dreary.”

  “Then we’ll bring in an expert capitalist—” Yake said, and then caught himself in surprise. My Ghod! That’s it! He turned excitedly to Kasahara. “Warm up your keyboard, Nori! I want you to download a complete set of—no, wait. Limit your search to mammalian species only. Which species has been the most successful overall in its transactions with the InterChange?”

  “Don’t bother, Nori,” said Anne. “Yake, I can tell you without looking. It’s the Rh/attes.”

  “The rats?”

  The Rh/attes. The ‘/’ is silent.” Larson grinned. “They’re the ones who want to indenture themselves to us.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I’ve been doing some research. The Rh/attes are so successful that nobody trusts them.”

  “Oh, that’s terrific,” said Madja. “Capitalist pigs.”

  “No. Rh/attes.”

  “Is no difference.”

  “Wait a minute—” said Yake. “I don’t care if they’re dancing bears if they’re successful! What’s the gimmick, Anne? How are they doing it?”

  “I think—that they’re uh, there’s no polite word for it. They’re ‘snitches.’”

  “Snitches?” asked Madja. “What is ‘snitches’?”

  “It’s an American word,” said Larson. “It means Supreme Hero of the Soviet Republic.”

  “Oh,” said Madja. And then frowned, as much in puzzlement as in anger.

  “They’re spies,” said Yake. “Right?”

&
nbsp; “Mmmm,” Larson made a face. “Not quite. That’s one of their services. Information management. Nobody wants to issue a warrant of foreclosure on them because they’re too valuable as snitches. And besides, nobody is sure what secrets they’d accidentally let drop about the species who signed the warrant.”

  “Nice position to be in,” said Yake.

  “How did Rh/attes get this way?” asked Madja.

  “Apparently,” said Nori, studying the screen of his clipboard. “They have the nasty habit of indenturing themselves to anyone who’ll take them on.”

  “Interesting. What happens to the species that do?”

  “Apparently, they benefit.” Nori hesitated, then added, “Well, most of them, anyway.” He peered at his screen with a frown. “Apparently, there were a couple that didn’t.”

  “Were?”

  “Maybe I don’t understand the reference. It just says here ‘retired.’”

  Yake sipped his bheer and thought for a moment. He looked across the table at his colleagues. “Well. Okay. It looks like there are risks involved here too.”

  Larson said, “I don’t think we have any choice. I vote yes.”

  Madja sighed and said, “Of course, I must officially protest dealing with capitalist swine like Rh/attes.”

  Yake looked over at her. “And off the record?”

  “Off the record? Off the record, I am very curious and will allow myself to be outvoted.”

  “Nori?”

  “My grandfather was a capitalist.” Nori grinned broadly. “I’ll take the chance.”

  “Good. Then it’s three yes and one abstention. We talk to the Rh/attes.”

  “First, we have another dhrink—” said Larson. “We’re going to nheed it.”

  A Game of Rh/attes and Dragons

  The Rh/attes were as unsavory as their name suggested.

  They smelled musty—like old hair. Like old cheese. Like mildew.

  The Rh/attes were dark and sinister creatures only chest high to a man. They had little malicious eyes and stood hunched forward, like crones over a cauldron, rubbing and twisting their ugly bony fingers in a continual wringing motion. To make it worse, they wore coarse black capes with hoods that made them look like Assistants to Death. Their eyes gleamed red in the shadowed cowls—but not the searing red of the Dragon’s eyes, no; the Rh/attes’ eyes were embers, like smouldering coal.