Fianchetto: A Message from Garcia

This is a chapter from the first half of Fianchetto, and it takes place in the city of Schaffhausen, Switzerland. Victor is there to visit the headquarters of AI maker Hortalez et Cie. While there, a would-be assassin breaks in and shoots the place up. Victor is saved by a security guard, Simone Hart. After lying low in Victor's hotel for a day, they venture out when Simone discovers a retired grandmaster, János Márton, is giving a 'simul,' playing multiple players at a local cafe. After winning his game against Márton, the grandmaster invites Victor and Simone for a drink, and relates the story of the last human chess champion before the age of the AI, Anatoly Sherschansky.

A Message from Garcia

            No one else but Victor won, though two players drew Márton. Victor found it very tense playing this way, waiting many minutes between moves. At least his AI games would be timed to the standard rate of forty moves in two hours. 

            It was past 23:00 when the game ended. Victor's brain was boiling with alternate visions of how the game could have gone. He cleared the board, reset positions, and tried to show Simone what would have happened at move twenty-eight, or thirty-seven, or forty-four if Victor had moved differently. His hands flashed over the board so quickly pieces already out of play went flying across the table, into Simone's lap, and on the floor.

            She stopped his furious reconstructions by catching his hands.

            "Stop," she said. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

            "Isn't it clear? Here, if I push the bishop to the d-file--"

            "Stop."

            The silver haired woman came to their table.

            "Pardon me," she said. "Mr. Hart, is it? The maestro would like to invite you for a drink." She held out a hand to Simone. "Mrs. Hart, too, of course."

            Simone accepted for both of them. "We'd be honored, wouldn't we, honey?"

            "Sure, thank you, Ms.--?"

            "Halász, Margo Halász. I am M. Márton's assistant."

            Victor stood. "Lead on."

            "Oh, not here. The maestro favors the bar, 'Die Lupe.'"

            Simone slid out of the booth. She towered over Margo Halász, who couldn't have been much more than 160 cm. tall.

             Márton made his way through the cafe, head down, striding hard. Some of the woodpushers thrust scripters at him, begging for autographs. He brushed them aside with Hungarian phrases Victor was sure weren't kind. Outside, a plump Peugeot waited for him. An elderly man sat behind the wheel, driving.

             Márton ducked inside. Victor stood back to allow Simone in. She feigned amazement.

            "Playing old men is good for your manners," she quipped. He planted a hand on her back and propelled her into the car. Enjoying his gallantry, he waited for Ms. Halász. She stood away from the car.

            "I'm not invited," she said. "The maestro said I was to stay behind."

            Victor cupped a hand to his lips and whispered loudly, "The maestro is a fool." She smiled, but she was plainly unhappy being left out.

             Márton made impatient noises. Victor got in, only to find Simone sitting on the right side of the seat, as far away from their host as she could manage.

            Victor sat between them.  Márton looked annoyed. Simone sported a thin, tense smile.

            "What's this?" asked Victor.

            "I've decided not to break the grandmaster's fingers," Simone said. "At his age, bones don't always heal well."

            He guessed the old goat had been a little too free with his hands. Maybe Victor's win was not the real reason for their invitation.

            "'Die Lupe,'" Márton barked. The driver engaged the motor and drove on.

            "How did you do it?" Márton asked Victor when they were underway.

            "Do what?"

            "Win the game. How did you do it? Did you use some Your/World app?"

            "I outplayed you, that's how."

            "In the Diodati? Pah! Who are you really, and what is your rating?"

            "He's the reincarnation of Bobby Fischer," offered Simone.

            "God preserve us from that! Tell me, Mr. Hart. Who are you?"

            "My name is Victor Leventon. I have no FIDE rating or Elo number."

            The Peugeot hugged the narrow streets along the Rhine. No one spoke for a while.

            "You're the Leventon who is challenging the artificial intelligences?" Márton said slowly. Victor admitted he was. "God and all His saints give you strength!"

            "You approve of the chess champion being human?" said Simone.

            "Chess is a human game. Humans should be masters of it."

            The bar 'Die Lupe' wasn't far from the coffee house. It was another old storefront, all blackened wood and diamond-shaped, frosted panes of glass by the door. The door handle was a heavy brass loop, polished butter-colored for many years by many hands. Márton marched up the low steps and yanked the door open.

            A locals' bar it was, dark and smelling strongly of old beer. No one greeted them as the entered. The bar itself was far to the back, lit by holographic lager signs. A meter wide Your/World screen showed a perpetual football match from somewhere warm and sunny. Most of the visible clientele was closer to Márton's age than to Victor's. As for Simone, she appeared to be the only woman in the place. Her progress across the darkened room drew more than one idle stare.

            "Just like home," she said.

            A round booth awaited the maestro. Apparently Márton was a regular here; his table was ready, and the dispenser at the table half-filled a highball glass with pale liquor as soon as he sat down.

            Victor sat down at right angles to the grandmaster. Simone carefully sited herself by his side, out of Márton's reach. He regarded her seating choice with disdain.

            "My apologies," he said. "I took you for someone more worldly."

            "I'm worldly," Simone replied. "But I don't take shit from anybody." Márton shrugged.

            Victor asked the dispenser for what the maestro was having. He received a hundred cc's of pálinka, Hungarian fruit brandy, in this case apple. Simone sniffed his glass and dialed up vodka.

            "I haven't lived in my homeland for forty years," Márton said. "I keep in touch by drinking pálinka as often as possible."

            "Great idea," Victor said. He tossed half his measure back and blanched at the strength of it. Charles Proteus Steinmetz—the stuff was a hundred proof.

            "Why haven't you been home in forty years?" Simone asked. She held her shot glass neatly between her fingers.

            "I made a vow," the old man said. "If I could not defeat Anatoly Sherschansky, I would never set foot in Hungary again."

            Victor sat up straight. "You knew Sherschansky?" Márton nodded once. He drew another hundred cc's. "What was he like?"

            "Bugfuck crazy, wasn't he?" said Simone.

            "No, no, this is lies. He was a brilliant man, most sensitive and cultured. It was his curse to be—what is the word? Befelé forduló, I do not know in English. The Germans say introvertierte."

            "Introverted?"

            "As you say. The man was so shy he could barely stand to play in public. That is why he first made his mark in Your/World play. He didn't have to face an opponent in flesh."

            "His style is terrifying," Victor confessed.

            "You are right, but replayed games do not begin to convey the, the--" Words in any language failed the old grandmaster. He made a fist and smote the table with it. "The dread his play created. What was it Garcia said? 'Facing Sherschansky is like gripping a knife by the blade.'"

            "Who's Garcia?" Simone wondered.

            "Enrico Garcia, my old friend, a grandmaster from Arequipa," Márton said. "That is Peru."

            They sat, sipping, except the maestro, whose glass was empty already. Simone rolled the shot glass between her palms.

            "I don't quite get it. You say this guy was so introverted, but scared the shit out of everybody he played. How?"

            Victor said, "He threw pieces at his opponents, one after another, exchange after exchange, until he had the minimum force left to checkmate. I've seen some of his games last less than thirty moves! Nothing mattered to him but winning. Theory, position, combinations were a waste of time to Sherschansky. Go for the throat. Go now. Conquer, or don't come back alive."

             Márton filled his glass a third time. "You are correct, young man, but as I said, merely replaying his games does not give you the true flavor of Anatoly Sherschansky. For example, he was unwashed to the point he could be smelled before he entered the room."

            "They called him 'the Rasputin of chess,'" Victor said, smirking.

            "Pah, foolish Your/World chatter. Rasputin was a crude, savvy peasant. Anatoly Sherschansky was tormented into madness."

            Simone didn't know the story. Victor related what he knew about the Russian grandmaster and his doctor, who gave Sherschansky illegal cortisone injections.

            She grimaced. "What for?"

            "I knew Dr. Brandauer, too." Márton declared. "He was Sherschansky's evil genius. Anatoly came to him because he needed treatment for his extreme introvertierte. He had played as far as he could on Your/World. To advance his standing, he had to play in live tournaments, face to face."

             Márton lined up his fourth pálinka. He was downing them faster now.

            "Brandauer was doctor to many athletes and Your/World actors. It was said he could cure shyness and sharpen the memory. Sherschansky was afraid of pszichoaktív drugs—" He waved a hand beside his ear. "Drugs for the brain, yes? Dr. Brandauer told him he could cure Anatoly's shyness and improve his concentration at the same time."

            "With cortisone?" said Victor.

            "Certainement." Maybe it was the brandy, but Márton was starting to mix his languages.

            "Did Sherschansky know what the doctor was giving him?" asked Simone. She had three shot glasses in front of her now.

            "He knew! Did Brandauer lie to him? Nein! Did Brandauer tell him this drug will make him insane? Nein!"

            "More insane," Simone said.

             Márton waved a finger. "Non. Anatoly was troubled, but brilliant. He was not crazy until Brandauer's needle got him."

             A gloomy silence fell over the booth. Victor had just the one pálinka. By now Simone and Márton were matching shots.

            "So . . . " Simone slowed down her speech to regain her precision, "what happened to Brandauer?"

            "Sherschansky killed him. With a table knife. At dinner." Márton raised a glass in salute. Victor wasn't sure if he was toasting the slain doctor or the mad grandmaster.

            "I've always wondered: how do you kill someone with a table knife?" Victor mused.

            Simone said, "Drive it through their eye." Down went another shot.

            Brandauer was killed in St. Petersburg. Sherschansky plead self-defense (he would not plead insanity), but he was convicted. He died in prison in Russia less than three years later. He was twenty-nine.

            "Sad," Simone admitted. "What about the AI?"

            The AI that took Sherschansky's title was MEFISTO, designed and built by Erika Freitag's father, Hermann Freitag. Being a machine, it was not afraid of the Russian's kamikaze style. It methodically hounded the grandmaster, blunting his ferocious attacks and squeezing him to death, like some cybernetic constrictor. Sherschansky, in the throes of cortisone psychosis, publicly compared MEFISTO's play to having his hands nailed to the table, one finger at a time. Despite its eventual victory, MEFISTO suffered irreparable damage to its higher cognitive functions. Victor told them the hulk of the AI was now in the Deutsches Museum, in Munich.

            "I should go there and piss on it!" Márton declared.

            It was late. Simone and Márton were rapidly getting numb with drink. Victor, who had to get up early to catch his flight to the States, suggested calling it a night. He had just one last question for the maestro.

            "You lost your match with Sherschansky; you said that's why you haven't been home to Hungary. But forty years? He's been dead most of that time. Why stick so strongly to a vow made over a dead man?"

            Rheumy-eyed, Márton leaned close to Victor and replied, "We were comrades, but I hated him. He ruined me, ruined my game, do you see? After our match in 2015, I never played competitive chess again. It wasn't just a vow that kept me away from Pécs, my home." He groped for his glass. "It was shame.

            "That's why I needed to know who you are. I've been beating the little pricks around here for years. I do not make sweat for them. You, you played like a surgeon—a cut here, a cut there. Then my prick fell off. I bled to death. I had to know who you were."

            That was enough. Victor induced Simone to get up. She gathered herself against the vodka and stood, and between them they hoisted Márton to his feet. Eyebrow raised, he leered at Simone.

            "You are a woman indeed," he said. "Ach, to be twenty years' younger. Or even ten!"

            "Yeah dad, you're somethin'," she said. "Just keep your hands where I can see them."

            The grandmaster mastered himself. With much affected dignity he walked to the door of Die Lupe unaided. Simone leaned on Victor. He put an arm around her waist.

            "You okay?"

            She grunted. "Do you feel sorry for that dirty old man?"

            "I don't know. Is that me in fifty years?"

            "You might be that dirty, but you won't be so bitter." She pinched his chin gently in one hand and kissed him. "You're going to win."

            Outside, Márton called his driver. The Peugeot soon returned. One foot on the door sill, Márton offered them a lift wherever they were going.

            "No thanks," said Simone with a wave. "We'll walk." She draped an arm over Victor's shoulder. The maestro regarded them with frank jealousy.

            "If I were ten years younger. Maybe only five . . ."

            "Good night, maestro," Victor said. "May I link you? My match with ARAKHNA is coming up next month, and I need a second--"           

            "You don't need me, boy. You'll have that machine like lunch."

            "Your expertise would be invaluable."

            "Eh?" Márton threw up a hand. "We'll see. Talk to Margo about it."

            Unsteadily, he ducked inside the car. Victor waved good-bye. Simone held on tightly to his shoulder. As the car departed, she leaned in and nipped playfully at his ear.

            "Don't do that unless you mean it."

            Her breath was hot and smelled of alcohol. "I always mean it."

                                                                        #

            Attention! Target shift. Target shift. Acknowledge?

            "Priznao. Nova meta u vozilu?"

            Confirmed. Proceed.

            "Potvrda smene cilja."

                                                                        #

            They started on foot for the Maeterlinck. Victor noticed her gait steadied a lot after a block or so. Had she been putting on a drunk act? Who for, him or Márton?

            Victor admitted he did feel sorry for the old man. Simone called him a fool. Why let shame dominate your life so long?

            "Do you ever feel ashamed?" he asked carefully.

            “Nope.”

            "Never?”

            “Never. Shame only sticks if you're caught. Nobody's caught me yet."

            It was past midnight. The streets were empty of traffic and people. They started up a narrow side street leading away from the river. In a dark stretch Victor paused and drew her to him. They kissed.

            "Hey," she said. "You ever do it standing up?"

            He considered, not long. "No."

            "Want to?"

            "What about your rib?"

            "Let me worry about my fucking rib! Whaddya say?"

            He looked up and down the street. "Here?"

            "No, idiot, in the middle of the road." The idea did not appeal. He said so.

            "Suit yourself. I've had six shots of vodka, so I'm more open minded than usual. This is your chance to widen your experience."

            "I thought you were the careful one."

            "Like I said, six shots of vodka."

            He broke her hold and walked on, leading her by the hand. The Maeterlinck was not far away. Simone could walk off some of the booze by the time they got there. Then he could find out how careful she really was.

                                                                        #

             János Márton lived in a small flat on the third floor of a building off the Feldstrasse. It was a quiet location, well kept in the Swiss manner. He couldn't have afforded if he'd moved in today, but having been in residence more than twenty years, his rent was fixed by law.

            His PDL unlocked the door for him. Lights flickered on in the foyer when he entered. His apartment had the characteristic smell of old paper and dust. Being a man of the late twentieth century, Márton still owned many books. He had shelves full of them, along with thousands of back issues of various chess periodicals. Though he owned some two dozen chess sets, the only one he used regularly was a tiny wooden Staunton set given to him by his parents back in Pécs. He was eight years old when he got that set.

            It was set up to replicate a game he'd played in 2012 against Enrico Garcia. After thirty-three moves Márton had a winning position, but Garcia managed to wrest a draw from him. The old grandmaster had been studying this game off and on for a week. He would've found the solution by now, but for the stupid simul he had to play at the Diodati tonight . . . still, the evening had been more interesting than most. That fellow Leventon could at least play the game, and his lady friend, ah! She was tasty, yes. She lacked the warmth of a true Magyar woman, the fire and the comfort, but he could see in her gray eyes much passion. Cold passion, he could tell, but passion nonetheless.

            His throat was raw from the apple brandy. At least he out-drank the young man. He had only one pálinka. The woman matched him shot for shot.

            He sighed. Such a waste.

            In the kitchen, he poured and downed some mineral water. Remembering the simul, he checked to see if the money had been flashed to his account yet. It wasn't there. He'd yell at Margo in the morning to get it done.

            A knock on the door. Really? It was almost one in the morning. Who calls at a time like this? It had better not be one of those limp-prick woodpushers from the cafe, seeking wisdom from the maestro.

            "Igen, igen," Márton called. "I'm coming!"

            At the door he leaned close to the panel and said, "Who is it?"

            "Herr Márton?" said a voice muffled by the door.

            "Yes, who is it?" he demanded.

            "I have an urgent message for you."

            Message? "What message? Who from?"

            "The name on the message is 'Garcia.'"

            Enrico? He still lived in Peru--or did he? In 2055, no one sent written letters or telegrams any more, but Márton remembered when people did. Enrico Garcia was past seventy himself, so maybe he had sent a message.

            He unlocked the door and opened a few centimeters. A dim figure in a bulky jacket stood in the shadowed hallway.

            "Herr Márton?"

            "Yes?"

            The man raised a small handgun. Fixed to the barrel was a slim black silencer. He fired one shot. It struck János Márton in the chest. With a groan, the old man fell back inside the flat.

            Without crossing the threshold, the gunman pushed door open wider and took deliberate aim at the grandmaster. He put one round through Márton's head, then pulled the door shut with a gloved hand. With his own PDL he changed the door's code and locked it. Given the old man's temper and habits, it might be days before his fate was discovered.

            Downstairs, a car waited. The man got in and flashed three letters to his employer: NxB.

Simone has a sore rib from having been shot. She was wearing a bulletproof vest, but the impact might have cracked it. Later, she makes herself Victor's bodyguard during his match with the Russian AI ARAKHNA, which he plays from a rented beach house in Kitty Hawk, N.C.