Death vs. Deep Blue
By Hamish Dee
Tactically, it isn’t that I’m the best chess player of all time. I’m good, certainly, and I’ve had millennia to perfect my technique, but being the reaper of souls does give me an additional psychological advantage over my mortal opponents. The stakes are grossly disproportionate. If I win a chess match, my opponent faces an immediate and eternal demise, but if they win then I just come back another day. But Death doesn’t make second trips. I can’t claim to be undefeated though. I did lose a match a few years back, just one.
Most souls haven’t heard that I’m a chess player. They attempt to talk their way out of fate in the normal ways. They promise they’ll go to church every week; they’ll go back to college; they’ll build schools for African, AIDS orphans. It still disgusts me that they think I care about these things. It’s as if they didn’t know I was coming. Still, I simply explain that it’s too late for all that, and they should come along quietly. You see? Despite their protests, I’m polite. Even though I’ve reaped every last soul and there’s nothing left to surprise me, I’m sympathetic. I know everybody dies just once.
The wisest and most knowledgeable souls know that I’m a chess player, but don’t challenge me. When I walk before them and beckon them to follow, they hesitate. I’ll walk a few paces and turn to back to see them standing still, looking a little lost. They’ll sheepishly ask me, “Don’t you…?” or “I heard that you play…?”, but they won’t finish the question. They look back at themselves, stricken with cancer or mangled in a car accident. They realize what victory would mean for them, and decide to accept the inevitable.
My favorites are the knowing fools who ask for a match, and I never turn down an opponent. As an unappreciated servant of mankind, a chess match is my opportunity to vent my frustration, and express myself in the most maniacal and sadistic ways. It’s like Russian roulette without an empty chamber.
If my foe makes a good move, I might ask, “So, have you lived a good life?”, and they’ll quickly lose their nerve. To dishearten my opponent, I often bring up celebrity matches, saying, “Your technique is a lot like John Lennon’s. Now, that was a good match. Not quite as good as Mussolini though, he was the best.” That isn’t to say I’ve actually played with those two, but it’s disheartening to think I might have. If an opponent is too good, I call on Cerberus, my three-headed hellhound. In our routine, he’ll walk up next to me, and I’ll pat him on the head. Then Cerberus will walk to my opponent, growl softly and then lie down at their feet. My opponents can barely hold their pieces once they see the dog, and then the smoke rising from the dog’s nostrils chokes them. Usually, they flee from the table, thus, forfeiting the match.
These are just a few of the countless techniques. Since I’ve dealt with human souls for so long, I find them utterly predictable. I know how to make them rush bad decisions and rethink good one’s. I have complete control and, to mortal souls, I’m unbeatable.
On February 9, 1996, Garry Kasparov died of accidental Carbon Monoxide poisoning. I arrived to collect Kasparov in his luxury hotel room, while he was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling with his second eyes. When I enter a room, people tend to notice, but Kasparov was breathlessly fixated on the ceiling. With my tall, dark countenance, I stood over his bed and looked down on the thin, clean-cut man, but he just looked through me.
Finally, I asked, “What are you thinking about?”
He answered in a monotone voice, “I’m concentrating on tomorrow’s match.”
“I don’t think you’re going to make it.”
At last, the situation registered. His soul sat up and scooted itself into the headboard. Clutching his knees, he looked around the room for an escape route. Quickly, his eyes returned to me. The wide, fearful gaze showed that he recognized me. He mumbled nonsensically, as he was searching for words, but after a few feigned gasps, he averted his eyes, a sign of resignation.
With a minor selfish interest I asked, “What kind of match were you going to have tomorrow?”
He looked up at me, and then away again. He responded, pausing between each thought, “Chess match. Against. Computer. Tomorrow. Deep Blue.”
Alright! I thought, now we’re in business.
“So are you any good, Mr. Kasparov?”
His shoulders relaxed for a moment and he turned towards me, futilely trying to see beneath my hood. A faint smile crossed his lips. He’d heard the rumors, which saved me an explanation.
I stepped sideways, and the table, board and pieces were behind me and already set. The table and stools were made of granite boulders, the board was carved into the flat top of the stone, while the pieces seemed to grow out of it. Due to its discomfort, it’s a setup reserved for the opponents I guess will be a challenge. The stone stools are flat on top, but hard and cold, forcing the player to constantly shift from buttock to buttock.
I told him, “Have a seat.”
Reluctantly, he crawled toward me and off of the bed. He sat in front of the pieces of blackened stone.
I said, “The dark ones are mine, Kasper. You get the first move.”
The fearful look returned and he jumped from my seat, bumping his knee. He didn’t like the nickname. Too bad, I thought.
The key to winning this match was to stay conversational. So, I heckled him, saying, “Have you been playing long, Kasper? Oh, you’re a grandmaster? Way to go, Kasper! In that case, I should have brought the timer, Kasper. A Ruy Lopez? That’s your best opening move, Kasper? How ever will I counter that, Kasper? What will you miss most about life, Kasper?”
During the middle game, he illegally moved his knight two spaces up and two to the left. Before I mentioned it, breaking him completely, I asked, “Why do you say ‘deep blue’, before?”
“It’s a computer that plays chess. It’s supposed to be unbeatable, or at least very good.” Then he paused and added helplessly, “I’m not going to get to play against it, am I?”
“You moved your knight illegally.”
He looked down at it, and appeared a bit nauseous. He barely kept from crying. I didn’t speak anymore. I’d out positioned him already, and didn’t want to incapacitate him with fear, finishing the game early. It’s not every day you beat a grandmaster. I wanted to enjoy it.
By the end, I still had a rook and a queen, while his king danced around a single, faithful pawn. My victory was a move away. His shoulders were drooping and he couldn’t face me anymore.
I broke the silence and said, “Could you stand up please, Mr. Kasparov?”
We stood in unison, but he kept his head down. I slowly lifted my hand and pointed all of my bony fingers at Kasparov. He tried to guard himself with his shoulder. I curled my fingers into a tight fist, while the knees of my opponent began to quake.
Then the granite table disappeared, and I said, “Do you mind if we finish another time?”
Kasparov’s eyes rolled and he fell to the ground. The cause certainly wasn’t blood loss. Strictly speaking, he was in no state to lose consciousness.
I said to the collapsed spirit, “I want to play your match against Deep Blue. We can put off our game until another day. Ok?”
From the ground, he nodded his head in agreement.
“Good, I’ll see you there.”
When I returned to Kasparov the next day, he had the shadow of a beard across his face. His eyes were red and there was gunk in his lashes. As a contrast, his hair was perfectly aligned, making me wonder if it was a wig. The room looked like a large vacant office with bookshelves and potted plants recently brought in for decoration. There was a square-shaped desk with a thick, wooden surface, a mahogany chess set on top and the names Garry Kasparov and Deep Blue printed in block lettering on the side. A tall, stiff-necked journalist was standing beside the table with his scraggily cameraman and a tottering, old referee. Deep Blue wasn’t there yet.
I snuck up to the table, stood behind Kasparov and asked, “Why is your name on the side? I told you I had the first match. Should we finish our game first? Put my name on the table!”
He pounded his fist, as soon as I spoke. Undoubtedly, he convinced himself that yesterday’s meeting was a hallucination, or he might have hoped I wouldn’t make it. I never miss an appointment though. He said quietly, as not to be heard, “Shh. I can’t do that. They’ll think I’m crazy.”
The journalist and cameraman had clearly heard Kasparov. They looked at him, then at each other and smirked.
Very evenly, I responded, “Don’t sush me, Kasper. They can’t hear me, but even if they could, don’t sush me.” I paused for thought and continued, “I’ll forget the name tag, but if this match goes to me, you do not credit yourself with a victory. When people ask, you say ‘Death is the real winner.’ Now say it.”
His lips hardened and he whispered, “They can hear me.”
“I don’t care.”
He said in resignation, “Death is the real winner.“
“And apologize.”
“I’m sorry.”
The pasty-faced journalist took a few steps toward Kasparov and said, “Mr. Kasparov, are you alright?”
He yelled, “Stay away from me! I’m fine. Nobody talk to me!”
I interjected, “You really need to settle down. You’re making me look bad.”
He gave me an insolent and spiteful look, but kept quiet.
I told him, “I can read your thoughts, Kasper. I’m not going to lose.”
Just then, the door to an adjacent room flung open and the faint song of digitized trumpets played in that direction. It was the midi version of a song played to announce the arrival of a king. Behind the door stood a robot about the size of a nutcracker without its hat. It was gray with bright orange eyes that lit up, a small speaker for a mouth, two flimsy, inflexible arms and a large base with motorized wheels on the bottom. The mini robot was playing the song and the motor whirred as it rolled across the hard wood floor. It rolled to the edge of the fine tapestry beneath our table, but fell when it to tried to roll over it. The machine stopped playing the trumpets, but turned its wheels helplessly.
“That’s Deep Blue?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” Kasparov answered.
“This’ll be easy. I’m starting to regret keeping you alive.”
Kasparov smirked at my remark. It annoys me, when people stop being afraid.
The arthritic, fat-necked referee leaned over painfully to pick up my mechanical opponent and placed it respectfully on the table. On its feet again, Deep Blue moved forwards and backwards, spinning its arms like a windmill.
In its squeaky robotic voice, it demanded, “LET’S PLAY. LET’S PLAY NOW. I’M FIRST. ROAR.”
It rolled onto the board and turned to the pawn in front of its king. It lifted its arm beneath the head of the pawn and reversed two spaces, dropping the piece. It rolled off the board and flashed its eyes, while his arms were spinning.
It demanded, “YOUR TURN. YOU GO NOW. MOVE. IT’S YOUR TURN GO NOW. YOUR TURN TO MOVE NOW GO…”
The demands continued without pause.
I said, to Kasparov, “He’s quite uppity. Probably compensating for his size and lack of a soul. Move to C5.”
He obediently moved the pawn and, as long he had his hand on a piece, the robot would stop talking, though its wheels still rolled to and fro. When the move was made, Deep Blue roared like a baby dragon through an industrial fan. Sparks flew from its ears and its head spun. The robot announced, “IT IS MY TURN. YOU WILL BE DESTROYED,” and rolled onto the board to move another pawn.
If I were suddenly visible to everyone in the room, I wouldn’t have been a greater oddity than Deep Blue. For all of its cold, mechanical logic, Deep Blue wasn’t a good sport. Eyes flashing like warning lights, it seemed to stare through Kasparov and onto me, saying, “GO. GO. YOUR TURN TO LOSE, GO. HURRY GO. TOO LONG.” Then it would circle the table, shooting sparks from its ears. I hadn’t the leverage to counter its’ taunts, and at one point it even laughed at me. I mean, at ME! Really!”
During the middle game, the board was too crowded for Deep Blue to move about comfortably. It started ordering around Kasparov in the same way I was, saying, “MY TURN. MOVE QUEEN TO E2. DO IT. DO IT NOW. KILL KNIGHT. KILL HIM.” Any piece of mine that it conquered, the robot immediately rolled into and bumped off the table.
Kasparov laughed along with Deep Blue, when it took my knight.
To dampen the mood, I threatened, “You and I have a game to finish right after this one’s over, Kasper.”
Not caring who listened, he turned and said, “Tell you what. Let me play the machine next. If it wins, we can finish the game. If I win, we’ll put off our game for another 50 years.”
I considered the offer for a minute and said, “You can’t beat the irritating machine. It’s impossible. You don’t have the nerve.”
“We have a bet then.”
I ordered, “Castle.”
“What?”
“Move my king and rook!”
He turned around and moved them.
After an hour of agonizing screeches, whirrs, obnoxious taunts and disruptive sparks, the miniature robot beat me. As a final insult, Deep Blue rolled across the board, spinning its arms and knocking down every piece. Throughout the middle and end game, I felt the pressure of impending defeat, but I was stunned when it actually happened. I’d never before felt so limited. Humans will never defeat me on their own; of this, I’m certain. But the cold logic of their machines could, in a sense.
True to our agreement, Kasparov played the second match, while I crouched in the corner. I couldn’t focus on their match because I was considering the ramifications of mine. Beaten, I thought, non-undefeated. There’s such an ugly quality to those words.
Deep Blue had calmed down for the second match. Whether it already considered Kasparov broken or was only designed to taunt me, who can say? But before I knew it, their match was over and Kasparov was walking out the door a winner.
I called, “Are you going somewhere, Kasper?”
He answered with a broad, mocking smile, “I thought I’d get lunch. Maybe just a salad. Have to eat right if you want to live a long, healthy life.”
“I’m glad your having fun,” I replied with no hint of sarcasm. I rose to my feet and, towering over him like an immortal Goliath, I said, “Mark the day, Kasper. I’ll be seeing you.”
His expression went dark and the fear returned. I lifted my arm and held out a bony finger. As I reached out to touch his forehead, I vanished. He needed that fleeting image to remind him. Technology can delay me, but against humans, I always win.