Walking Paper: a late excerpt from Fianchetto, Book II

It's January 2020, and this is the future, August 2055.

13. Walking Paper

The Librarian filled his mug a third time with golden pilsner, alive with a thousand tiny amber bubbles. Alone at his table in his favorite Italian restaurant, cocooned by the aroma of warm bread, garlic, and wine, he was at peace. So vast was his relief at the safe arrival of the Otto Lilienthal in Frankfurt he managed to overcome his persistent fears and venture out for a real meal. The Rose of Tuscany was a traditional restaurant where they cooked with real butter, real cheese, and all the wines were imported from the old country. Not that the owners were Italian; the Laskaris family were Greek. Their culinary strategy was più italiano di te, and it worked.

He wasn't drinking wine tonight. After weeks--months--of gargling with bourbon, beer went down like spring water. He started to feel human again after just half a pitcher.

It was quiet here. Distant strains of Puccini emanated from comfortable corners of the restaurant. There were no giant screens in the Rose. That was another plus. A small 70 cm. screen glowed at the far end of the bar for patrons to watch the Sox or Patriots, but the sound was always muted. As an extra precaution against being reminded of the dangers of the outside world, the Librarian took a seat with his back to the distant screen.

He savored his way through a basket of garlic rolls while waiting for his insalata verde while his bistecca fiorentina was being prepared. His second knotted roll tore easily in two, but before he could get a half in his mouth, he detected something alien. A presence. A smell.

Turning slowly, he looked toward the bar. It was early, just past seven, and the bar had only one patron. Seated on one of the tall stools was a hunched figure eating free breadsticks from a beer mug on the bar. His hair was cropped close, and he wore a long military coat, too heavy for summer. Georgie Laskaris, tending bar, was at the far end of the counter filling condiment jars.

"Hey," Georgie said to the man. "You gonna order something?"

The stranger held up a hand. Even from a distance the Librarian could see his nails were long and dirty. Georgie approached skeptically.

"What'll you have?"

The man--apparently homeless, a street person--muttered something the Librarian couldn't hear. Georgie's face split is a disbelieving grin.

"Lemme see some money!"

The stranger dug a hand in the pocket of his khaki shorts and produced a well-worn Clavel 6T PDL. The Librarian hadn't seen the model in years; it had been a popular starter device when he was still working for the university. No one over twelve ever carried one.

It seemed to work though. The homeless man flashed payment to the bartender. Shaking his head, Georgie set a sparkling balloon glass on the bar and poured a measured amount of brandy from a very old, picturesquely dusty bottle. The man cradled it in both hands and drank.

Show over, the Librarian returned to his plate. His salad arrived. Sometime before he finished the stranger at the bar finished his brandy and departed without the Librarian noticing.

Dinner was delightful. His waitress was Georgie's sister Sandy, and she kept the bread basket filled and his mug brimming. When he declined cannoli for dessert, she feigned checking his temperature by pressing a warm hand to his forehead.

"That's not like you, Mr. Miller!"

"It's okay. I'm stuffed! Just the check, please."

She flashed him the tab. Eyes narrowed she said, "Next time you will have two cannoli!"

"Okay, okay." He paid, tipping her generously.

Feeling well fed and at peace for once, he sauntered to the foyer. It was almost eight and the sun was still up, though the brick peaks around him threw the street in deepening shade. Traffic was sparse too. The Librarian checked the nylon bag hanging from his shoulder. The packet was still there.

This was the real reason for his evening out. After failing to get his anonymous report about the dangerous ongoing anomalies surrounding Victor Leventon to the FBI via Your/World, he'd tried to hand write his findings instead. That document didn't make it out either. Frightened, he'd numbed his nerves with liquor to the point he couldn't get out of his apartment. The triumphant arrival of the Zeppelin in Frankfurt this morning galvanized him to try again. He spent all morning and most of the afternoon re-writing his conclusions--and fears--into a thirty-nine page document. All the links were there, painstakingly handwritten down to the last comma, colon, and virgule. Unable to trust Your/World, he slipped the report into a vintage manila envelope and printed out postage from Your/World Postal so he could mail it to the Feds. No return address, and he did not sign it. He wasn't worried about being traced. So few handwritten documents existed these days he doubted the FBI (or anyone else) could match his scrawl to his name.

Someone was trying to get Leventon, that was certain. All his apps and personal analytics pointed to this fact. Leventon's enemy had money, influence, and deep Your/World access. There couldn't be many private sources of such power. He excluded Hortalez et Cie. from the outset. De Dernier was committed to ruining Leventon's attempt to defeat FORT, but the Librarian could not imagine De Dernier trying to bring down airliners, sinking a ferry, or endanger so many VIPs on Lilienthal just to win a chess match.

Who then?

The events of the past three months, their timing, their relationship to Victor Leventon's activities were all clear to him now. His theory was absurd on the face of it, but terrifying in its implications. The FBI needed to know. He could walk into 201 Maple Street, Chelsea, in person, but he was afraid he'd never walk out again. Once Sanderson Miller, the Librarian, was known to the Feds, his career and his freedom would be over. Better to walk paper to the authorities. Better to remain anonymous.

Dusk was creeping over the street by the time he left The Rose of Tuscany. The post office was two blocks away. LED street lamps came on suddenly, silently, brightening with every step he made. He missed old-fashioned street lights, the kind that buzzed and clicked when they came on and hummed loudly thereafter. The cranky sound of those lamps reminded you the technology was there, performing as it should. Modern street lights, powered by stored sunlight, were close to magic. Silent, almost organic, they were exotic trees that had grown in place of the old lamps.

The current Mt. Auburn Street Post Office dated from the 2035, done in the 1930s WPA Revival style. A much larger facility was demolished back then, a victim of the Walking Paper Collapse of 2031, when the postal system nearly expired from lack of physical mail.

The Librarian could see the front steps now only a block away. Though it was early, it was a week night, and few people were abroad on foot. Self-drivers and buses cruised past, but hardly any pedestrians. That made it easy for him to spot the figure rising from the steps of the Bancroft Bank just ahead. He recognized the brandy buyer from the restaurant. The man stood and watched the Librarian pass. Once beyond, he descended the steps and fell in behind the Librarian.

Alarms went off in his head, though not because of Leventon's case or the documents he was carrying. It was quite enough to get mugged for his PDL, or whatever the stranger thought he had that was valuable.

The Librarian quickened his pace. He cast about right and left, looking for police, pedestrians, anyone he could fall in with to ward off his shadow. Two couples, laughing and talking loudly, progressed down the opposite of Mt. Auburn. They were no help.

At this rate the post office came up fast. He hurried up the broad steps, not daring to look back at his pursuer. The entrance was well-lit, hardly the best place for a strong-arm robbery, but the Librarian pushed through the painted faux-wooden doors into the cavernous, empty lobby.

His footfalls echoed on the hard marble floor. The lobby doglegged right and he moved quickly into the long axis of the lobby. It was cool here, pleasantly so after the muggy street. Along the long interior wall where there would have been locked mail boxes fifty years ago there were now row upon row of data ports. Patrons rented a port which they could access with their PDL to receive packages and other physical mail. Opposite the ports were tall, pseudo-Federal windows. Now made of large sheets of polycarbonate, they had painted on muntins to preserve the illusion of old-fashioned windows. At the far end of the lobby a large 1930s style mural depicted Ben Franklin in his guise as the first Postmaster.

The outer door squeaked behind him. The Librarian retreated until his back was hard against the data ports. Soft footsteps advanced.

"What do you want?" he called.

The man came around the corner. Without replying he walked to within arm's reach and stopped. Up close the Librarian could see he was a young man, not much past twenty, dirty from many days of living rough. Under his khaki coat he wore the staple of thrift stores everywhere, a black T-shirt with the logo of some band popular eight or ten years past.

"What do you want?" he repeated, less loudly this time.

In his right hand a weapon appeared. Not even a knife, it was a ugly spike about a dozen centimeters long, patinaed with rust: an ice pick.

"Papers," he said.

"What papers?"

He pointed the ice pick at the Librarian's shoulder bag. "Papers."

Carefully, the Librarian unslung the pouch. He held it out, just beyond the young man's reach.

"They're just papers, not worth anything."

"Give 'em."

He held the bag out farther, letting the bag dangle from its strap. Pitying the young man's rough appearance he asked, "What's your name?"

"Huh?"

The Librarian repeatedly slowly, "What is your name?"

He snatched the bag by the strap. Digging open the flap with the ice pick he muttered, "Engelbert."

Engelbert? Really? What the hell?

"Why do you want my papers?"

"My friend wants 'em."

Some of the strength in the Librarian's legs left him. "What friend?"

The young man didn't answer, but yanked out the manila envelope. He dropped the bag and slid the worn steel spike under the flap. With a single tug he tore it open.

"Engelbert." No answer.

He pulled the pages halfway out, exposing the Librarian's cramped writing. Squinting at the scratches and squiggles of blue ink (which he plainly did not understand), Engelbert returned the ice pick to his pocket and brought out his childish PDL. He waved the camera lens at the exposed pages.

Very good. Bring them. So said a distant voice distorted by the Clavel's cheap, tiny speaker.

"Engelbert, who wants my papers?"

"You don't ask!" he said with sudden fury. The pick was back, too close to the Librarian's throat.

"Okay, okay, you got them." He held his hands up, palms out. "We're done, right?"

Engelbert backed away a step or two, keeping the ice pick forward.

"You stay here," he said, coughing slightly. "I see you again, I'll stick ya."

To prove his point, he drove the spike into one of the data ports. It easily punched through the plastic face. Working it free, he backed away, stuffing the envelope inside his coat. Then he disappeared around the corner.

The Librarian's knees failed. Wobbling, he sank to the polished floor. How, how was his every move known and thwarted?

The front plate of the port Engelbert pierced fell off. Within a web of fiber optics glowed with a faint amber light. Looking up, the Librarian stared at the ordered rows of ports lining the post office wall. As he watched, the ranks of green LEDs changed to red in a smooth, rapid ripple across the length of the lobby. Astounded, the Librarian watched them sweep from left to right and back again. He eased away. They resumed their green glow until some of the ports in the center of the wall were outlined by two long rectangles of red LEDs. In the center of each rectangle a single crimson LED tracked to and fro from red-green-red, like the pupil of an eye darting from side to side. The motion ceased. Two red eyes fixed on him.

Heedless of Engelbert and his ice pick, the Librarian bolted through the post office doors and ran, stumbling, all the way back to his apartment. Not until he was behind six hand-keyed bolt locks did his heart begin to slow down.

No more. No more. No more.

#

Eight blocks away, Engelbert hurried to his current haven, the Auto Laundro-Matic. Sited on a side street off Mt. Auburn, the all-night laundromat was his current address. He had access to the service corridor behind a bank of dryers, thanks to his friend. She unlocked the door for him every night. There he could sleep undisturbed. He didn't even mind the sound of the big dryer drums turning. It was kind of soothing.

It was early, and the Auto Laundro was nearly empty. A guy in a muscle shirt was stuffing dry clothes into a duffle bag as Engelbert burst in. They eyed each other, then the guy swung the bag on one shoulder and slipped out. Engelbert waited until no one was passing in front of the wide front window before he opened a link on his child's PDL.

"Open the door," he whispered. He heard a clank behind his back and reached behind to try the knob. He was in.

The corridor was striped with light. Beams from the public side filtered through the louvers atop the dryers as well as through the narrow gaps between machines. Engelbert slipped between the steel supports holding up the dryers. His little nest and halfway down between the door and front wall of the Auto Laundro. The service passage was warm and filled with ankle-deep drifts of pastel lint.

He slid down the wall. Lint swirled up when he reached the concrete.

"I'm here."

The Clavel 6T did not have a wireless retina viewer, but a tiny 4 by 5 cm. screen. It glowed in the half darkness, and there was his friend's face.

"Good work," she said. Seeing her smile was like a jolt of wack. He grinned back.

"What'll I do with the papers?"

"Destroy them."

Puzzled, he asked, "How?"

"Burning is best."

He had no way to make fire. People he knew smoked shit, but his drug of choice, wack, was a liquid he inhaled.

"I can flush 'em down the john," he offered.

"Burn them."

She didn't sound angry, but her displeasure poured over him like cold rain. Stumbling a bit over his words, he wondered aloud how he could burn the man's papers.

"Look at the dryers," she said. "Look closely. Do you see the wiring harness attached to the back of each unit?"

"Wiring har--what?"

"A bundle of wires connected to the heating element."

A still picture appeared on the screen. He looked at the nearest dryer and spotted multicolored strands of wire bound together with nylon ties. Pointing the lens of his PDL at the strands, his benefactor confirmed that's what she wanted.

"Pull the harness loose from the connector." Again, a simple image on the screen illustrated what she meant. Engelbert pulled the wire bundle free.

"You'll need something to short the connection with," she said. "A piece of wire, and sort of metal--but it must be metal." He mentioned the ice pick. "That will do."

From the tiny screen the beautiful face praised his loyalty and diligence. Next she told him to crumple up the Librarian's papers in a heap on the floor. He did just as she directed.

"Now, hold the pick by the wooden handle and bring the wire harness close to the paper. Tap the metal spike against the exposed contacts. You'll get a spark."

The dryers operated on 440 volts AC at 30 amps. When the ice pick touched both contacts there was a loud pop and bright flash. Startled, Engelbert dropped the pick and scooted away from the wires.

"Try again." He shook his head. "Do it for me, Bert."

She'd never called him that before. Being given a nickname was like being given a medal. Trembling, he raked through the drifts of lint for the pick and the dryer power cord.

"That's right. Try again."

He was not afraid, not if she asked him to do it. Shoving the cable into the pile of wadded paper, he applied the metal shaft of the pick across the contacts once more. Another flash, but he kept his hands steady. A flame curled up from the paper.

"Excellent!" He laughed, delighted in her approval.

The flame spread. Smoke began to fill the corridor. Coughing, Engelbert edged away. Piles of lint melted and caught fire. The flames spread.

"Gotta get out," he said. He pushed backward until he could rise to a crouch behind the dryer supports. At the door he tried the knob. It would not turn.

"The door's locked!" he said, coughing more now. "Open the door!"

"The papers must be destroyed."

All six dryers groaned to life. The three-phase motors were normally designed to rotate clockwise so that the attached fans blew outward, sending a stream of steamy air and lint out through exhaust vents at the front of the drums. Now, for some reason the big drums rolled in reverse. As they gained speed, hot air blasted backward into the service space. The pile of burning papers flew to cinders, winking red in the dark as they smashed against the back wall and along the passage. Lint in the air caught fire.

"Open the door! Open it!"

Engelbert's coat hem ignited. His shoe laces, knotted and re-knotted every time they'd broken, curled and caught fire.

"Let me out!"

The Clavel's cheap plastic housing began to melt. From the sagging LCD screen the face flickered and vanished into a few milliliters of liquid crystal. Still the speaker whispered, "The papers must be destroyed."

He pounded on the door, but it did not yield. In moments the fire burst through the closed dryer doors, flashing over into the Auto Laundro proper. Empty detergent paks, food wraps, and other waste ignited in nearby trash cans. As the blaze spread, the overhead sprinklers stubbornly refused to open. It wasn't until heat shattered the front picture window that passers-by noticed the fire and called for help. By then everything in the laundromat was in flames.

#

At home, the Librarian sat at his desk, wrapped in his favorite bathrobe. The revolver weighed heavily in his lap, but he kept his hand on the grip until it was slick with sweat. In his other hand he held a tall water glass of amber liquor. After a few long swallows the terror faded. By the time he emptied the glass he didn't even notice the wail of sirens passing by.

Victor Learns to Play Chess

Halfway through my work in progress FIANCHETTO, I have this flashback to when Victor (my chess prodigy)first plays the game. As I said before, this is not a YA novel, despite these chapters featuring children.

The formatting has changed for the blog.

2046: A Field of Red and Black

Through a veil of dark foliage a lone strawberry gleamed. Dew hung heavy on the serrated edge of each leaf, like beads of crystal on green velvet. The boy's sleeves and the knees of his jeans were already soaked. He reached his small hand through the damp, silvered leaves and found the fat red berry. Careful not to crush it, he pinched the stem in two and extracted the strawberry intact. In the past he'd spoiled too many being impatient. Spring strawberries were a cash crop for the Farm, and his mother wouldn't stand for anyone mutilating the best berries by rough picking.

Victor Leventon squatted between long rows of low berry plants, looking down the furrow to where the girl worked. Her hands moved with quick jerks, snatching fruit from the plants and tossing them backward in one motion. The wicker tray behind her held a pile of mangled berries. He glanced at his own brimming container, where every berry was sorted by size, with the largest ones in the center and the lesser specimens lining the edges.

Behind him, Chloe complained loudly there were no berries for her to pick.

"You took 'em all!" she exclaimed. Victor was very thorough. Any berry larger than the tip of his thumb was fair game.

"Move ahead," he suggested.

Chloe stomped past him, went down on one knee, and started grabbing berries in the row ahead of him. Every fourth or fifth one she cast a withering glare back at him. She was annoyed Victor had finished ahead of her since every kid in the berry patch this morning had to fill their tray before lunch. His efficiency would keep Chloe in the field longer.

He stood, gathering the wide wicker tray in his arms. It was a lot for a six year-old to carry, and he wobbled a bit as he tried to balance the load while treading the softly plowed earth. Approaching Chloe he paused.

"Whatsa matter?" she sneered. "Go around. You afraid?"

He was. It would be just like her to trip him, make him spill his morning's labor in the dirt. Then he'd have to start over again, and Chloe would gather up the best berries he'd dropped.

"Hey!"

The girl called from down the row. Victor and Chloe looked at her. At nine, she was older--and meaner--than either of them.

"S'there a problem?"

Victor shook his head. Chloe shrugged broadly and vowed nothing was wrong. She knew better than to cross the older girl. Chloe still had the fading remnant of a black eye from their last encounter.

"Get on with it then."

He eased by Chloe and walked quickly down the furrow. When he reached the other girl, her head was down and she was savagely snagging berries again. Sometimes she pulled so hard she tore plants out, roots and all.

"Thanks," he said, standing over her.

"Yeah, sure. I don't need Miss Chloe making trouble this morning."

He checked her tray. It was a mess. Mashed berries, shredded leaves, and a generous layer of loam over everything.

Victor put his tray down and picked hers up. He shook it carefully side to side. Bits of leaf blew off, and some of the dirt sifted through the slats. Her berries were still rough, but at least they were cleaner.

"What're you doing?" she said sharply.

"Fixing your tray."

"Who said you could?"

He pretended not to hear. After blowing off more torn leaves and dirt, he set her tray down and added double handfuls of berries from his own overfilled one. She protested--mildly--but he continued until her tray was nearly full. Then he walked on. Govinder was waiting at the end of the row with a handcart full of the morning's harvest.

"Hey," she called after him. "Why?"

Victor looked back over his shoulder. He didn't know why, but he said, "Why not?"

At the handcart, Govinder took Victor's berries and set them, tray and all, on a balance scale. Satisfied with the weight, he slid the heavy tray into the rack on the cart.

"Very good, young man," he said. Govinder was a newcomer, and didn't know everyone's name yet. He was older than most of the adults on the Farm, past forty. Victor had heard Frances say she didn't think he would stay long. He was a 'huggy,' she said, which in Frances-speak meant he was at Fysikós Farm to meet women, and not to live a truly natural life.

He hung a yellow painted wooden disk strung on a piece of string around Victor's neck. This was to show the boy had completed his morning chore satisfactorily.

"I saw you help her," he said in a low, friendly voice. "You like her?" Victor didn't answer. "It's okay! Watch out--she's a rough one!"

He was thirsty, and his hands and knees were dirty from picking, so Victor did not linger. He climbed the hill above the strawberry field and went to the wash house. Some of the men were working there, enlarging the end of the building to hold more shower stalls. They called out to Victor as he entered. Waving, he went to one of the big soapstone sinks and washed his hands. Same old bars of white Ivory soap at every sink. It was the only soap Frances would buy. It was natural.

Done with chores till after lunch, Victor drifted back to the Hall. This was the large, open barrack where the children of Fysikós Farm all lived together. It was a single long room, built balloon fashion like a camp shelter. The long walls on either side were lined with wooden bunks, three tiers high. Younger kids slept in the low positions, older kids higher up. Victor had been here a year since outgrowing the Farm's nursery.

At the far end of the Hall, where the bunks stopped, was an open area. There were two tables ringed with chairs, a few rag rugs, and home-made beanbag chairs made of denim and canvas, stuffed with pulverized corn cobs. Victor spied two boys, Shawn and Jesus. Everyone called Jesus 'Hay,' after the way his name was pronounced in Spanish, Hay-soos.

"Mister Victor!" Hay said.

"Hey Hay."

The boys were crouched on the plank floor, flicking checkers at standing targets consisting of random dominoes and other jetsam of the children's games box. Victor watched as red and black disks flew, knocking down targets with a satisfying clatter.

Shawn took more careful aim and clipped a tall figure shaped like one of the sundae glasses Victor had seen in the soda shop in Pittsboro. The black figure went flying. Victor ran to retrieve it.

"What is it?" he asked, returning the piece.

"A king," Hay said. "You know, a chess king."

Victor had seen the older kids playing chess sometimes, but he didn't understand it. He studied the wooden figure in his hand. It was cylindrical, with a bulging, curved center like the chair legs in the adults' cabins. The bottom was flat and covered by a circle of green felt. At the top the king was shaped like a sundae, but instead of a cherry on top, there was a cross.

"What does the cross mean?"

"Means he's the king," Shawn said. He thumped a red checker so hard it caromed off the back wall and flew back at them. Hay yelped with delight and dodged the missile.

"King of what?" Victor persisted.

Shawn sat up. He waved Victor over. "C'mere," he said. "I'll show ya."

"Uh-uh," Hay said. "He's a baby, he don't know anything."

Shawn was not dissuaded. "Come here, Vic." He told Hay to grab the chess board out of the games box. Grimacing, Hay dragged a hand through the wooden chest until he found the board. He slapped it on the floor in front of Shawn.

"Look," Shawn said, "this is how you play chess."

Victor sat down, folding his legs under him. The board he saw was no mystery; it was a cardboard checker board, covered in worn, glossy paper. Each alternating red and black square was edged in gold. Shawn turned it halfway around, placing the folded seam parallel between them.

Without being asked, Hay rounded up stray chess pieces they'd been using as targets. There were two colors, black and white. Some of the pieces were twinned while others were unique.

"This is the king," Shawn said, holding up a white version of the piece Victor still had. "He goes here." He put the white king on a black square, on the back row in the center of the board. "Next to him goes the queen."

The queen was almost as big as the king, but it had no cross on top. It had a little ball, like a cherry on a dish of ice cream . . . Victor's stomach gurgled. He was hungry, as usual.

Outside the royal couple (as Shawn called them) went two pointy pieces that looked to Victor like a pair of rockets. "Bishops," Shawn called them. Outboard of them were a pair of horse-headed figures.

"These are knights."

Victor knew from Farm school what knights were, but these looked like horses, not guys in iron helmets.

"That's just what they call 'em," Shawn explained. He held up a stubby piece with a notched edge circling the top. "This is a rook."

"That's a castle," Hay countered.

"It looks like part of a castle, but it's called a rook!"

They argued about it until Victor finished setting up his black pieces in imitation of Shawn's.

"Shut up, Hay." Shawn picked up a handful of identical little tokens. "These are pawns. They're like army soldiers. They go in front."

He lined the eight pawns ahead of the bigger pieces. Victor did the same.

"White goes first."

Victor said, "Why?"

"'Cause it always does. It's a rule, like in checkers."

"Black goes first in checkers. 'Coal before fire,'" Hay intoned.

"Well, White goes first in chess!"

Shawn explained how the pieces moved, shifting each example back and forth. Hay kibitzed, offering corrections when he thought Shawn said something wrong.

"How do you win?" the younger boy asked.

"You checkmate the enemy king by threatening to capture him--but you don't really. As long as he can't escape, that's checkmate." He set up an example with the black king caught in the white queen's grip, and protected from capture herself by a supporting bishop.

"But the king isn't captured," Victor objected.

"Doesn't matter. He will be."

"So the game stops before the king dies?"

The older boys exchanged smirks at Victor's deliberate reasoning, but Shawn agreed. Checkmate meant the king was about to die, and nobody could save him.

"Let's play," Victor said. Hay groaned.

Shawn won in eight moves. Hay high-fived him, chortling. Victor stared at the board for a long time. He was so quiet so long Shawn thought he was going to cry.

"Hey, I lost all my first games too," he said. "That's how you learn."

Victor pushed the chess men back to their starting positions. "Play again."

Hay rolled his eyes. Shawn shrugged. "Might as well." It shouldn't take long to beat a six-year old again.

Ten moves in, Shawn's over-confidence vanished. Victor evaded his simple traps and counter-attacked. Hay, bored with his companions' absorption, went back to flicking checkers against the wall.

Sixteen moves. Twenty . . . twenty-eight. Victor's queen thrust forward, menacing Shawn's rook on its corner square. He studied the situation frantically, then spotted a wonderful move. His knight swung wide, catching Victor's queen and one of his rooks in a twin attack, called a 'fork.' Without hesitation Victor moved his rook to safety. In triumph Shawn captured the black queen.

In the next moment, Victor pushed his rook to White's back row. There was nothing there to stop him, nor could the White king escape.

"Checkmate."

"What?" Hay left his target practice and hunched over the board. "Shawn man, he won?"

Shawn shook his head in disbelief. He held out his hand. Victor gazed at it dumbly until his friend prompted him to shake it.

"Good job," Shawn said.

At that moment a pack of older kids burst noisily into the Hall: Chloe, Michelle, Harris, Lex, and May. They chattered loudly, ignoring the younger boys. Chloe strode right through where Victor, Shawn, and Hay sat, trampling the chess board and kicking over the pieces.

"Cow!" Hay exclaimed.

She made an obscene gesture and kept going, into a closet at the end of the room to visit the chamberpot.

"Hope you get splinters!" Hay called. Behind the door, Chloe laughed.

The older kids flopped in their bunks and kept up their running commentary about the morning's sensation. Apparently Frances had come out to inspect the harvest and ended up chewing out the girl Victor gave his strawberries to. When he heard that, Victor stopped moving chess pieces and listened closely.

"Her tray was a mess!" Michelle declared. "Squashed berries, lots of leaves and dirt. Frances reminded her we can't sell ruined berries at the Farmers' Market."

"What'd she say?" asked Lex, swinging his feet off the side of his bunk.

"The usual: 'Who gives a shit, Frances?'"

"She didn't!"

Michelle held up a hand. "Swear! She stood there while Frances had a fit at her and said those five words!"

"What'd Frances do?" May wondered. She was afraid of Frances. She was afraid of lots of things.

"She handed her the messed-up tray and said, 'This is all you get to eat, until they're gone. And don't throw them away, or you'll nothing after you do for twenty-four hours!'"

"Harsh!" said Harris.

The girl walked in. Talk died. Dry-eyed, Frances' nemesis went to her bunk, at the end of the row by the game area. With one hand she swung up to her top bunk and turned her back to the room.

Chloe emerged from the closet. Finding the room awash in awkward silence she said, "What?"

From her bunk the girl growled, "Shut the fuck up!"

"Dirty mouth," Michelle muttered.

"Better a dirty mouth than a dirty snitch!"

Stiffly, the older kids filed out, some looking back at the unmoving girl in her bunk. Feeling awkward and exposed, Shawn and Hay got up and bolted for the exit, leaving scattered checkers, chess pieces, and dominoes behind.

Victor remained. The girl said, "You leaving too?"

"No."

"You're not scared of me?"

"No."

She turned over and looked down at him. He sat on the floor, legs straddling the checkerboard.

"You're weird."

Victor brushed off Chloe's dirty footprint and set up the chess men again. He'd thought of another way he could have beaten Shawn four moves earlier--and as he was arranging the pieces, he saw another way two moves before that.