War Games by Alan Rice

Sammy was often mistaken for being younger than he actually was. He was short for his age, and skinny, and wore black-rimmed glasses and white shirts buttoned up to the very top. He had a high, broad forehead and his face narrowed down to a pointed chin; his big, dark eyes were set very far apart, halfway between the brow line and his chin, and his mouth often appeared little more than a dot beneath a small, sharp nose. His hair was black, long, and unstyled; it just hung from his crown like a toupee that had been put on wrong. With a pair of pointy ears, he would have made the perfect cartoon space alien.

It was expected that he would be very bright. Much brighter than his classmates. A whiz at math, anything to do with memorizing dates or facts. But in fact, he showed little interest in academic subjects, rarely spoke to others, played no sports and joined in no games. Teachers tried over the years to draw him out, and most concluded that there was little there to be drawn. Others theorized that it was undiagnosed autism. Most just assumed that he was dull. And by their standards, he was.

And yet a sharper observer might have noticed something unusual in the way his eyes shifted from one subject to another, the way his hesitant speech was the result of thinking through a number of possible responses instead of an inability to find one. Or that his lack of friends was not because he wasn’t interested in other people.

In middle school, sometimes boys picked on him. Bigger kids tripped him in the hallways or going downstairs and put garbage in his locker, but he never complained to the school authorities. And for whatever reason, the teasing never persisted. There was no sport in hassling someone who didn’t cry, didn’t fight back, but somehow stared the attacker into awkward defeat. A few girls tried to make a joke of him, giggling and calling out his name in a mocking sing-song. Then a girl named Cindy—on a dare—asked him for a date, or started to. She put on her sexiest smile and sidled up to him swaying her hips and batting her eyes, all prepared to tell him how she thought he was really hot and would he like to hang out with her. But when the moment came, nothing happened. She looked him in the eye, and started to smile but froze, mouth open, then turned and quickly walked away. She wouldn’t talk about it, and after that the girls left him alone.

He played chess. When he was in high school, the assistant football coach (of all people) had got together a group of kids, some of whom already knew how to play. The rest he taught the basics. At first, meetings were sporadic, since the coach had his football duties, but a half-dozen or so students would get together during lunch and play each other. The librarian got a couple of books on strategy and reserved a space where they could meet and play, where supervision wouldn’t be a problem.

Sam talked when he was with the other players, except when he was concentrating on a game. He would study the board, then look up at his opponent, boring into them, it seemed, as if trying to read their mind, anticipating their next move and plotting his own. At those times, he could be a little unnerving, a little intimidating. To some, even scary.

There was no hierarchy among the club members, and there were no officers. Sammy didn’t win every game, but played with such ferocity (if that word can be applied to chess) that he rattled his opponents so that they made hasty, ill-considered moves. Swiftly, assuredly, with a brilliant, unexpected couple of moves, Sammy would out-maneuver them. Then he would smile. But it was not a smile that conveyed a sense of superiority or vicious delight in crushing your foe or even the condescending satisfaction getting the better of a weaker player. Perhaps one would have expected that from a child who had endured such bullying, but there was no trace of vengeful satisfaction. Just deep, unarticulated pleasure.

The game’s origins fascinated him. He fantasized about a time of chivalry, crusades and quests, when life was short, violent, and cheap, when women were beautiful princesses or seductive sorceresses or perhaps voluptuous but vulnerable peasants, prey for leering, marauding soldiers. After having been put through the most hideous of tortures, heretics were burned alive at the stake. Captured kings were treated with honor and respect, but foot soldiers were dispensable and their hacked carcasses fed carrion kites and roving packs of dogs. When Sammy played, the king and queen were always protected behind ranks of pawns, and flanked by the might of the swift-moving Church and guarded by the leaping knights, and the nearly impregnable castle. The king, capable of moving only one square at a time, is always at risk. The queen, on the other hand, is unrestrained: while her husband remains protected behind his more mobile and deadly minions, she, the deadliest piece of all, can sweep from one end of the board to the other and spider-like, entrap the enemy knights and clergy and pounce upon them. And of course no pawn was safe. Sammy came to see the queen as being the true prize: the most desirable, the most difficult to trap, the most fearful, the object of dread and lust.

When the chess club became an actual team, they had a tournament against an opposing school. It was a Friday afternoon, and a school bus had been reserved to take the kids to a neighboring school district. There were only the half-dozen students, the driver, the assistant football coach and one other teacher, a younger woman, who had wanted to go. Most members were excited. Sammy was calm. He sat by himself, by the window, in a bus big enough to hold forty-four students, or so it said on the side by the front door.

He hardly spoke, which no one thought strange; he was gathering his forces for the Big Game. His teammates understood and respected that. They made way for him, and gave him swift, soft words of encouragement. One of the girls actually squeezed his hand (not quite daring to kiss him, even on the cheek).

They arrived at the alien school and allowed themselves to be ushered down unfamiliar corridors until they reached the designated chamber of combat.

The floor of the school hallways reminded him: sixty-four squares, alternating black and white, eight ranks and eight files, eight times eight. White lockers, their padlocks fastened, keeping everything in place. Sixteen white pieces and sixteen black. Rook knight bishop king queen bishop knight rook. Pawn pawn pawn pawn pawn pawn pawn pawn. In his mind he lined up his classmates. Two kings always face each other, and two queens always face each other. The rows of pawns, stupid, mindless, pathetic victims of the sovereigns’ whims, faced each other, too, awaiting their commands.

The queen was the same height as the king, but always seemed taller.

Sammy’s favorite was the knight. The horse rearing up, aroused, ready to jump, to leap over his opponent, to deftly evade capture, and then land, not on a square directly ahead but off to the side, throwing the enemy into confusion, ready to strike the unsuspecting foe. Mobile. Good on the offensive. Worth fewer points than a rook or the queen, but valuable nonetheless. He is the subject of the Queen, her vassal, subduing his will to her bidding. Devoted to her, to her needs. Her desires. While the King stands by, stolid, imperious, unseeing and impotent, the Queen indulges her favorite. She might entertain a Bishop on occasion, but it is the animal drive of the Knight, of the Horse Rampant, that enflames her unquenchable passion.

The team coaches conferred. Because this was new to both of the competing schools, a certain amount of improvisation was required. Matches had to be timed so that the event would not run overly long. The adults chatted good-naturedly. The students were polite and somewhat nervous. Sammy was silent.

Eventually things got started, and the students settled down to their games. Some were obviously inexperienced, and lost quickly. Ratings were assigned, and new opponents designated. The second round was played. The third and final set was chosen.

Sammy was paired with a girl about his own age. She was tall and thin and black-haired, with fierce makeup around her eyes. Her lip gloss shimmered. She wore a nametag stuck to her shirt that, a nametag with blue lettering that read “Hi! I’m” and then, nothing. Sam wore his, filled in slightly unevenly, to read “Hi! I’m sam” though his expression didn’t invite further conversation. The nameless girl looked as if she were suppressing a smile. It was impossible for Sam to look at her blank nametag without staring at her chest.

As if to distract himself, he extended his hand, and she took it. It seemed to him that it was somewhat moist. He hoped he wasn’t sweating. “I’m Sam,” he announced quietly. Unnecessarily, he knew, but he knew that it was the polite thing to do. Combatants always greeted each other before a joust, though in actual warfare, vaunting insults would have been appropriate. The girl’s face slowly formed what seemed almost a smile, and Sam feared that his politeness had been for nothing. But she gave her name. “I’m Alicia,” and what had at first seemed to be a sneer softened. “I just don’t believe in filling in these stupid name tags.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

“Is this your first time?” Alicia asked. “In front of other people, I mean,” and when he nodded, she stage-whispered, “So you’re a virgin!”

“Not exactly,” he said evenly. He imagined Alicia costumed as a witch: secretive, alluring, and irresistible. Beautiful and dangerous.

“Oh. ‘Not exactly,’” she answered, still smiling. She touched her nametag. “So you know the game?”

Sam looked at her squarely, from behind the protection of his black-rimmed glasses. “I know how to play.”

“Okay.” She looked him over: his spaceman features, his glasses, his unkempt hair. “But are you experienced? Really experienced?” She paused a second, then seemed to relent. “You don’t have to answer.”

He didn’t. But he wasn’t going to be intimidated. That would be cowardice. Unforgivable. Without taking his eyes from her, he selected two pawns, one black and one white, held one in each fist, and extended them to her, letting her choose. She continued to stare at him while she reached out her hand and touched one fist gently, almost stroking it, and he curled back his fingers to reveal a black pawn. She smiled.

They sat down to play.

Alicia played well. Her opening was conventional: the usual defensive moves to test the opponent’s daring, or strength, or vulnerability. Sam was prepared. He answered. His offense was cautious at first, as he tried to determine Alicia’s strategy. She did not seem to study the board as much as she studied him, shifting slightly in her chair, leaning forward or rocking back, looking as if she were ready to do something before abruptly changing her mind. Her fingertips would hover above a piece as she studied Sam’s expression, leaned in slightly, her fingers still above the piece she seemed to have selected, then quickly choose another, as if that was what she’d had in mind all along, and placing it delicately in the chosen square. When she took a white piece, she did so without bravado, but eyed Sam for some response.

He never gave her one.

Her King was relegated to his tower room, a virtual prisoner, where he could watch the proceedings, and the black Queen, for the moment, remained off to one side, biding her time.

Sam sacrificed one of his bishops; no great loss, as he was a weakling and had set for himself an indefensible position. And he suspected one of his knights of treachery, though nothing was certain. Nothing was ever certain. The pawns bloodied their swords regardless of consequence or risk to themselves.  Sam’s position on the board seemed secure.

Alicia’s army occasionally moved recklessly. One Knight foolishly attempted to penetrate Sam’s defenses, and was captured by one of his Bishops and doubtless tortured—la peine forte et dure!—on the rack, perhaps, or with the iron maiden. No ransom would be considered. Pawns fell left and right. Alicia leaned forward, her lips parted, her eyes met Sam’s, and her tongue moistened her upper lip. Her hand reached forward and her fingers touched the Queen. The fingers rested there a moment the way she liked to do, before pulling back and settling on the Queen’s Rook. Sam’s heart pounded. The Rook moved a few squares. Sam saw the opening.

His King’s Knight, aroused, emboldened, o’erleaped an unsuspecting pawn and arrogantly took his place at the breach. The complexion of the board changed in an instant. Sam’s forces, which had shown little relish for aggression, had quietly taken powerful positions, reaching into enemy territory and menacing the black forces with an abrupt reversal. Alicia’s Queen retreated, but only a few spaces.

Why such hesitance? Was it a trap? Sam held his breath in anticipation. His Knight, haughty, erect, surveyed the field.

Alicia leaned back. She seemed to hold her breath. Again, the lips parted and her tongue was just visible, the pink tip just touching the lower teeth, her glossy lips shining. Her dark eyes closed, slowly, then opened, and she gazed at Sammy and her sinister half-smile returned. She shifted in her chair.

The Knight saw his chance. The Bishop, always discreet, warned him even as he sprung, but emboldened, heedless of danger, the Knight flung himself upon the Queen. Had she been expecting this? Was she waiting for him? He was too much in the thrall of his passion to notice. Alicia caught her breath, clenched her eyes shut, and gasped as the Queen was taken down, ravished, subdued. The Knight was spent, but triumphant, and Sammy, exhausted, surveyed the destruction, and smiled. A slow smile, like satisfaction, crept across Alicia’s face, too, as she relaxed and her breathing returned to normal. She sat with her hands in her lap and savored the moment like holding a succulent morsel in her mouth, exploring its deliciousness. A hand lifted to the corner of her mouth where the lip curled and the ecstatic taste of victory lingered.

“Check,” announced Sam triumphantly, but Alicia’s expression didn’t change. Her hand, the fingertips damp from where they touched her mouth, reached down to the board. It came to rest on her Rook, the very Rook who, in his usual unimaginative fashion, had retreated from the action, and was now in possession of deadly power.

Sam watched in horror.

It was now clear to him. The Queen was not the victim. She had planned all this. The Knight was satiated, happy in his conquest, but drained, helpless, and utterly vulnerable, but even now he wasn’t in danger for he was not the true target: the black King, safe in his corner, oblivious to wife, could ignore him completely, and the Queen, victorious, laughed from the sidelines. The Rook, smiling from behind his battlements, moved easily from his secure corner to his position of unassailable strength.

Alicia allowed Sam’s eyes to meet hers. She exhaled, slowly, and suppressed the giggle of pleasure. She leaned forward. Her lips parted, then closed, then the laugh rose up, softly, as she arched her back and lifted her chin to him, letting her eyes close halfway, as she moistened her lips again, tasting her victory.

“Mate,” she said.

Alan Rice

Image: Chess board with the pieces set lit in monochrome. From Pixabay.com