The Peace War by Vernor Vinge
Wili pulled his attention back to his own game, trying to ignore the crowd of spectators and trying even less successfully to ignore his opponent. Though barely out of a Ruy Lopez opening—that’s what Jeremy had called it the other night, anyway—Wili had a good feeling about the game. A strong kingside attack should now be possible, unless his opponent had a complete surprise up her sleeve. This would be his fifth straight win. That accounted for the crowd. He was the only purely human player still undefeated. Wili smiled to himself. This was a totally unexpected by-product of the expedition, but a very pleasant one. He had never been admired for anything (unless his reputation within the Ndelante counted as admirable). It would be a pleasure to show these people how useless their machines really were. For the moment he forgot that every added attention would make it harder for him to fade away when the time came.
Wili considered the board a second longer, then pushed his bishop pawn, starting a sequence of events that ought to be unstoppable. He punched his clock, and finally raised his eyes to look at his opponent.
Dark brown eyes looked back at him. The girl—woman; she must be in her twenties—smiled at Wili as she acknowledged his move. She leaned forward, and raised an input/output band to her temple. Soft black hair spilled across that hand.
Almost ten minutes passed. Some of the spectators began drifting off. Wili just sat and tried to pretend he was not looking at the girl. She was just over one meter fifty, scarcely taller than he. And she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He could sit this close to her and not have to say anything, not have to make conversation. . . . Wili rather wished the game might last forever.
When she finally moved, it was another pawn push. Very strange, very risky. She was definitely a soft player: In the last three days, Wili had played more chess than in the last three months. Almost all of it had been against assisted players. Some were mere servants to their machines. You could trust them never to make a simple mistake, and to take advantage of any you made. Playing them was like fighting a bull, impossible if you attack head on, easy once you identify the weak points. Other players, like Jeremy, were soft, more fallible, but full of intricate surprises. Jeremy said his program interacted with his own creativity. He claimed it made him better than either machine or human alone. Wili would only agree that it was better than being the slave of a processor.
This Delia Lu, her play was as soft as her skin. Her last move was full of risk and—he saw now—full of potential. A machine alone could never have proposed it.
Rosas and Jeremy drifted into view behind her. Rosas was not entered in the tournament. Jeremy and his Red Arrow special were doing well, but he had a bye on this round. Jeremy caught his eye; they wanted him outside. Wili felt a flash of irritation.
Finally he decided on the best attack. His knight came out from the third rank, brazen ahead of the pawns. He pushed the clock; several minutes passed. The girl reached for her king . . . and turned it over! She stood, extended her hand across the table to Wili. “A nice game. Thank you very much.” She spoke in English, with a faint Bay Area twang.
Wili tried to cover his surprise. She had lost, he was sure of that. But for her to see it this early. . . . She must be almost as clever as he. Wili held her cool hand a moment, then remembered to shake it. He stood and gargled something unintelligible, but it was too late. The spectators closed in with their congratulations. Wili found himself shaking hands all around, and some of those hands were jeweled, belonged to Jonque aristocrats. This was, he was told, the first time in five years an unaided player had made it to the final rounds. Some thought he had a chance of winning it all, and how long had it been since a plain human had been North American champion?
By the time he was out of his circle of admirers, Delia Lu had retired in graceful defeat. Anyway, Miguel Rosas and Jeremy Sergeivich were waiting to grab him. “A good win,” Mike said, setting his arm across the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll bet you’d like to get some fresh air after all that concentration.”
Wili agreed ungraciously and allowed himself to be guided out. At least they managed to avoid the two Peace reporters who were covering the event.
The Fonda la Jolla pavilions were built over one of the most beautiful beaches in Aztlán. Across the bay, two thousand meters away, gray-green vineyards topped the tan-and-orange cliffs. Wili could follow those cliffs and the surf north and north till they vanished in the haze somewhere near Los Angeles.
They started up the lawn toward the resort’s restaurant. Beyond it were the ruins of old La Jolla: There was more stonework than in Pasadena. It was dry and pale, without the hidden life of the Basin. No wonder the Jonque lords had chosen La Jolla for their resort. The place was far from both slums and estates. The lords could meet here in truce, their rivalries ignored. Wili wondered what the Authority had done to persuade them to allow the tournament here, though it was possible that the popularity of the game alone explained it.
“I found Paul’s friends, Wili,” said Rosas.
“Huh?” He came back to their real problems with an unpleasant lurch. “When do we go?”
“This evening. After your next game. You’ve got to lose it.”
“What? Wiy?”
“Look,” Mike spoke intensely, “we’re risking a lot for you. Give us an excuse to drop this project and we will.”
Wili bit his lip. Jeremy followed in silence, and Wili realized that Rosas was right for once. Both of them had put their freedom, maybe even their lives, on the line for him—or was it really for Paul? No matter. Next to bobble research, bioscience was the blackest crime in the Authority’s book. And they were mixing in it to get him cured.
Rosas took Wili’s silence for the acquiescence it was. “Okay. I said you’ll have to lose the next one. Make a big scene about it, something that will give us the excuse to get you outside and away from everyone else.” He gave the boy a sidelong glance. “You won’t find it too hard to do that, will you?”
“Where is . . . it . . . anyway?” asked Jeremy.
But Rosas just shook his head, and once inside the restaurant there was no chance for further conversation.
Roberto Richardson, the tournament roster said. That was his next opponent, the one he must lose to. This is going to be even harder than I thought. Wili watched his fat opponent walk across the pavilion toward the game table. Richardson was the most obnoxious of Jonque types, the Anglo. And worse, the pattern of his jacket showed he was from the estates above Pasadena. There were very few Anglos in the nobility of Aztlán. Richardson was as pale as Jeremy Sergeivich, and Wili shuddered to think of the compensating nastiness the man must contain. He probably had the worst-treated labor gangs in Pasadena. His type always took it out on the serfs, trying to convince his peers that he was just as much a lord as they.
Most Jonques kept only a single bodyguard in the pavilion. Richardson was surrounded by four.
The big man smiled down at Wili as he put his equipment on the table and attached a scalp connector. He extended a fat white hand, and Wili shook it. “I am told you are a former countryman of mine, from Pasadena, no less.” He used the formal “you.”
Wili nodded. There was nothing but good fellowship on the other’s face, as though their social differences were some historical oddity. “But now I live in Middle California.”
“Ah, yes. Well, you could scarcely have developed your talents in Los Angeles, could you, son?” He sat down, and the clock was started. Appropriately, Richardson had white.
The game went fast at first, but Wili felt badgered by the other’s chatter. The Jonque was all quite friendly, asking him if he liked Middle California, saying how nice it must be to get away from his “disadvantaged condition” in the Basin. Under other circumstances, Wili would have told the Jonque off—there was probably no danger doing so in the truce area. But Rosas had told him to let the game go at least an hour before making an argument.
It was ten moves into the game before Wili realized how far astray his
Richardson’s talk continued for several moments, then faded away completely. The pale aristocrat eyed Wili with a faintly nonplussed expression, but did not become angry. Wili did not notice. For him, the only evidence of his opponent was in the moves of the game. Even when Mike and Jeremy came in, even when his previous opponent, Delia Lu, stopped by the table, Wili did not notice.
For Wili was in trouble. This was his weakest opening of the tournament, and—psychological warfare aside—this was his strongest opponent. Richardson’s play was both hard and soft: He didn’t make mistakes and there was imagination in everything he did. Jeremy had said something about Richardson’s being a strong opponent, one who had a fast machine, superb interactive programs, and the intelligence to use them. That had been several days ago, and Wili had forgotten. He was finding out firsthand now.
The attack matured over the next five moves, a tightening noose about Wili’s playing space. The enemy—Wili no longer thought of him by name, or even as a person—could see many moves into the future, could pursue broad strategy even beyond that. Wili had almost met his match.
Each move took longer and longer as the players lapsed into catatonic evaluation of their fate. Finally, with the endgame in sight, Wili pulled the sharpest finesse of his short career. His enemy was left with two rooks—against Wili’s knight, bishop, and three well-placed pawns. To win he needed some combinatoric jewel, something as clever as his invention of the previous winter. Only now he had twenty minutes, not twenty weeks.
With every move, the pressure in his head increased. He felt like a runner racing an automobile, or like the John Henry of Naismith’s story disks. His naked intelligence was fighting an artificial monster, a machine that analyzed a million combinations in the time he could look at one.
The pain shifted from his temples to his nose and eyes. It was a stinging sensation that brought him out of the depths, into the real world.
Smoke! Richardson had lit an enormous cigar. The tarry smoke drifted across the table into Wili’s face.
“Put that out.” Wili’s voice was flat, the rage barely controlled.
Richardson’s eyes widened in innocent surprise. He stubbed out his expensive light. “I’m sorry. I knew Northerners might not be comfortable with this, but you blacks get enough smoke in your eyes.” He smiled. Wili half rose, his hands making fists. Someone pushed him back into his chair. Richardson eyed him with tolerant contempt, as if to say “race will out.”
Wili tried to ignore the look and the crowd around the table. He had to win now!
He stared and stared at the board. Done right, he was sure those pawns could march through the enemy’s fire. But his time was running out and he couldn’t recapture his previous mental state.
His enemy was making no mistakes; his play was as infernally deep as ever.
Three more moves. Wili’s pawns were going to die. All of them. The spectators might not see it yet, but Wili did, and so did Richardson.
Wili swallowed, fighting nausea. He reached for his king, to turn it on its side and so resign. Unwillingly, his eyes slid across the board and met Richardson’s. “You played a good game, son. The best I’ve ever seen from an unaided player.”
There was no overt mockery in the other’s voice, but by now Wili knew better. He lunged across the table, grabbing for Richardson’s throat. The guards were fast. Wili found himself suspended above the table, held by a half-dozen not-too-gentle hands. He screamed at Richardson, the Spañolnegro curses expert and obscene.
The Jonque stepped back from the table and motioned his guards to lower Wili to the floor. He caught Rosas’ eye and said mildly, “Why don’t you take your little Alekhine outside to cool off?”
Rosas nodded. He and Jeremy frog-marched the still-struggling loser toward the door. Behind them, Wili heard Richardson trying to convince the tournament directors—with all apparent sincerity—to let Wili continue in the tournament.
15
Moments later, they were outside and shed of gawkers. Wili’s feet settled back on the turf and he walked more or less willingly between Rosas and Jeremy.
For the first time in years, for the first time since he lost Uncle Sly, Wili found himself crying. He covered his face with his hands, trying to separate himself from the outside world. There could be no keener humiliation than this.
“Let’s take him down past the buses, Jeremy. A little walk will do him good.”
“It really was a good game, Wili,” said Jeremy. “I told you Richardson’s rated Expert. You came close to beating him.”
Wili barely heard. “I had that Jonque bastard. I had him! When he lit that cigar, I lost my concentration. I tell you, if he did not cheat, I would have killed him.”
They walked thirty meters, and Wili gradually quieted. Then he realized there had been no encouraging reply. He dropped his hands and glared at Jeremy. “Well, don’t you think so?”
Jeremy was stricken, honesty fighting with friendship. “Richardson is a Mouth, you’re right. He goes after everyone like that; he seems to think it’s part of the game. You notice how it hardly affected his concentration? He just checkpoints his program when he gets talking, so he can dump back into his original mental set any time. He never loses a beat.”
“And so I should have won.” Wili was not going let the other wriggle out of the question.
“Well, uh, Wili, look. You’re the best unaided player I’ve ever seen. You lasted more rounds than any other purely-human. But be honest: Didn’t you feel something different when you played him? I mean apart from his lip? Wasn’t he a little more tricky than the earlier players . . . a little more deadly?”
Wili thought back to the image of John Henry and the steam drill. And he suddenly remembered that Expert was the low end of champion class. He began to see Jeremy’s point. “So you really think the machines and the scalp connects make a difference?”
Jeremy nodded. It was no more than bookkeeping and memory enhancement, but if it could turn Roberto Richardson into a genius, what would it do for . . .? Wili remembered Paul’s faint smile at Wili’s disdain of mechanical aids. He remembered the hours Paul himself spent in processor connect. “Can you show me how to use such things, Jeremy? Not just for chess?”
“Sure. It will take a while. We have to tailor the program to the user, and it takes time to learn to interpret a scalp connect. But come next year, you’ll beat anything—animal, vegetable, or mineral.” He laughed.
“Okay,” Rosas said suddenly. “We can talk now.”
Wili looked up. They had walked far past the parking lots. They were moving down a dusty road that went north around the bay, to the vineyards. The hotel was lost to sight. It was like waking from a dream suddenly to realize that the game and argument were mere camouflage.
“You did a real good job, Wili. That was exactly the incident we needed, and it happened at just the right time.” The sun was about twenty minutes above the horizon, its light already misted. Orange twilight was growing. A puffy fog gathered along the beach like some silent army, preparing for its assault inland.
Wili wiped his face with the back of his arm. “No act.”
“Nevertheless, it couldn’t have worked out better. I don’t think anybody will be surprised if you don’t show till morning.”
“Great.”
The road descended. The only vegetation was aromatic brush bearing tiny purple flowers; it grew, scraggly, around the foundations and the
The fog moved over the coast, scruffy clots of haze, quite different from an inland fog; these were more like real clouds brought close to earth. The sun shone through the mists. The cliffsides were still visible, turning steadily more gold—a dry color that contrasted with the damp of the air.
As they reached beach level, the sun went behind the dense cloud deck at the horizon and spread into an orange band. The colors faded and the fog became more substantial. Only a single star, almost overhead, could penetrate the murk.
The road narrowed. The ocean side was lined with eucalyptus, their branches rattling in the breeze. They passed a large sign that proclaimed that the State’s Highway—this dirt road—was now passing through Viñas Scripps. Beyond the trees, Wili could see regular rows of vertical stakes. The vines were dim gargoyles on the stakes. They walked steadily higher, but the invading fog kept pace, became even thicker. The surf was loud, even sixty meters above the beach.
“I think we’re all alone up here,” Jeremy said in a low voice.
“Of course, without this fog, we’d be clear as Vandenberg to anyone at the hotel.”
“That’s one reason for doing it tonight.”
They passed an occasional wagon, no doubt used to carry grapes up the grade to the winery. The way widened to the left and split into a separate road. They followed the turnoff and saw an orange glow floating in the darkness. It was an oil lamp hung at the entrance to a wide adobe building. A sign—probably grand and colorful in the day—announced in Spanish and English that this was the central winery of Viñas Scripps and that tours for gentlemen and their ladies could be scheduled for the daylight hours. Only empty winery carts were parked in the lot fronting the building.
The three walked almost shyly to the entrance. Rosas tapped on the door. It was opened by a thirtyish Anglo woman. They stepped inside, but she said immediately, “Tours during daylight hours only, gentlemen.” The last word had a downward inflection; it was clear they were not even minor aristocrats. Wili wondered that she opened the door at all.