The Game Poll: Risk

[Velox]

Vote here for your favorite "The Game" story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on June 3rd at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the The Game Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 12th round preliminary poll.

• [*]

Endgame

The sandy haired man stared at his opponent across the table. He could make out his opponents thin lips, elongated lower jaw, and sparkling green eyes beneath his ornate metal hood. Silently, he lifted the ornate, translucent pawn of pure glass and slid it forward one space. “Your move,” he said quietly to his opponent. But his opponent’s inhuman eyes, slitted like those of a cat, simply stared back at him silently, then once again at the board before him, where his own opaque silver pieces skirmished with their translucent enemies. To any watcher who did not know the truth, this would seem merely like a game of chess, albeit played on a gameboard far larger than normal and with oddly shaped pieces. But all of the hundreds of beings who watched with bated breath as the two chessmasters made their moves knew what was truly at stake. Ataran was wagering against the sand-haired human, Gonan, for the future of the world itself. Each time a pawn was lifted, a being in the mortal world moved. Each time a piece was taken, a mortal being died at the hands of a follower of the enemy. The rules of this particular brand of chess had taken Gonan years to learn, and even now he still did not consider himself a master. Ataran, however, was an immortal deity. He’d had thousands of centuries from before the time before time to practice and hone his skill. Even now, Gonan thought, it seemed that Ataran was toying with him, trying to keep him off-balance on the fronts of the game he was winning while simultaneously controlling and toying with the sectors of the board he controlled. What was still worse was that Ataran knew that Gonan was loath to sacrifice even a single pawn. He knew that each of them represented the life of a mortal being. As he watched, Ataran slid a pawn silently toward the rook, not caring that he had sentenced a human follower to death. Ataran simply stared at Gonan through his expressionless jade eyes, wiling him to make a move. He could withdraw his rook from the game’s center, leaving one of his two bishops open for capture by one of Ataran’s rooks. While he still had both bishops, he’d lost both knights and a rook. Ataran still had all of his royal pieces except one bishop. Gonan’s king was shielded only by his bishop, it wouldn’t take much more for Ataran to break through the last of his defenses and seize victory. Silently, Gonan withdrew the rook out of reach of Ataran’s pawn. If Ataran won he'd would be free to make good on his promises to enslave the human race for eternity, rendering them mindless creatures once more. But Gonan could see an opening as well. He still had his queen, as did Ataran. A dangerous, risky strategy took form. His queen could move and take Ataran’s bishop. Ataran would be forced to move his queen back to take Gonan’s queen, and his rook on the middle row could checkmate Ataran’s king, which was blocked from moving any direction but forward. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pass judgment on so many humans. Not when he didn’t even know if Ataran would take the bait. If Ataran took it, then he, Gonan, had defeated the immortal deity. But if Ataran did not take the bait and continued to press his attack, it would be over for him within minutes. Ataran’s eyes stared at Gonan coldly, daring him to make a move. And Gonan made his choice. -------[*]Texas Hold ‘Em The cards are dealt. Allen Parke’s bet. Across the sun-bathed room, Mr. Burke, CEO of Solus Engineering, lifts his two hundred sixty pound frame off his chair. He brushes his suit pants with three quick swipes, mutters through his thick mustache to his assistant, and enters the men’s restroom. Parke lowers his coffee, unnoticed by the near-empty Energy Cafe, and lifts his Rangers cap as if scratching his head. He doesn’t scratch his head. He does, however, press a button concealed beneath the cap. He can almost hear the voice in his head: “Well, Burke. I expected you’d be here...” One Mississippi — two Mississippi — three. The CEO’s assistant mutters to his cell phone in staccato as Parke follows Burke’s footsteps. In contrast to the cafe’s acoustics, the bathroom is silent; Parke’s footsteps echo hollowly. So does the low voice emanating from the bathroom stall nearest the door. “...figured you didn’t. You will soon, though. You know how big-time thieves always end up in the papers?” Burke has his back to the sink. His look conveys a clear message to Parke: Run. Parke lifts a finger to his lips and creeps to the stall door. “Expect to see me in said papers by tomorrow.” The click of a cocked gun is loud in the still air. Burke blanches. Parke turns away to ensure the CEO doesn’t see the corners of his mouth twitching at the auspicious flop. “Just step in here and there’ll be no trouble. I’d appreciate immediate—” The stall door is burst open with a bang. “—compliance; no one likes a slowpoke, you perhaps most of all...” Parke exits the stall with a device in his hand; a muffled voice murmurs through his palm, “Look, if you aren’t going to come in—” Parke deactivates the speaker and hands it to Mr. Burke. “Here’s your criminal.” The older man examines the device, eyes still widened by adrenaline. “Smells funny,” Parke remarks offhandedly. Burke lifts the speaker to his mustache. Parke grabs him as he keels over, slowing Burke’s fall enough for the collision of his head against the tiled bathroom floor to only result in a small bump. Quickly, Parke rummages through Burke’s pockets. Burke’s ID card, complete with photo and barcode, is in the front pouch of his wallet. Parke swipes the card across his cell phone, which beeps as it registers the barcode. Fourth street. Parke replaces the ID and reinserts the wallet into Burke’s pocket. Just in time: The substance he had coated on the speaker was weak, only inducing a minute and a half of unconsciousness. Burke’s awakening is slow; Parke kneels over him with faux concern. “What... what happened?” “Weak spell?” Parke suggests. He stands, offering a hand as if in afterthought. Burke takes it gratefully, nearly pulling Parke to the floor with his girth. “You okay?” “Fine, fine.” Burke pats his pockets to ensure everything is still within them and nods genially to Parke. “Thank you.” Parke waves away the thanks. Burke nods again, this time absently as business reclaims his mind, and exits the restroom. Parke in turn enters a stall and locks the door. The restroom outside is empty. Fifth street is slapped onto Chance’s table. Parke speed-dials. “The job’s done?” a low, rough voice greets him. “Full house,” Parke responds. “I’m sending the ID code now.” The voice sounds pleasantly surprised: “You’ve done all Striker could expect, Parke.” “Failure was never a possibility.” “I’ll transfer your pay as soon as we’re done our part. Hey — Parke — we ought to play cards sometime.” The voice hangs up. ------[*]Alexander had nothing left to work for. His fortune was currently too large to be spent in a normal lifetime, so he shouldn't need to find a new source of revenue for some decades. His mansions and other real estate had everything he wanted. And they, and he, were fully equipped with all the latest tricks for escape or defense from his enemy. And his enemy hadn't shown up. Alexander was puzzled. They had been battling for centuries upon centuries, and nothing like this had ever happened before. And Alexander had won last time. Logically, Aaron should be wanting payback. Alexander went to his computer - a comparatively recent luxury in their never-ending chase - and began searching for his enemy. If he recalled correctly, the last time they had met, his enemy had been calling himself Aaron Morris, or something like that (it was a weakness of his, which Alexander shared, to use his own first name whenever possible). Alexander had managed to frame him for theft - from Alexander's own company - landing him in jail for thirty-odd years. That had made two rounds in a row he had won. But that was considerably longer than thirty years ago, and Aaron should have been out by now. After some time, Alexander managed to find a record of one Aaron I. Morrison's escape from prison, twenty-three years ago. He grinned for a moment, wondering what the I. had been supposed to stand for, if anything, and resolved to ask Aaron next time he saw him. It was the sort of thing Aaron would remember. But that reminded him that he should have already seen Aaron. Surely it wouldn't take him twenty-three years to get back in fighting shape. Alexander stared at the screen in worry. For all the years they had fought, there had never been real hatred between Aaron and him. Some ill-will, he remembered, in the beginning, but that had evaporated over time. The only two Immortals either of them knew of, their shared fate, and history, had become a bond. Their rivalry had become a game, a way they could both pass the endless time. And if something had happened to Aaron, Alexander would have to find him. Frowning, he turned to one of his e-mail accounts, to begin. But then he noticed an odd message at the top of his inbox. It appeared to have been sent from this account itself. He opened it. It held only five words. They said, I'M COMING FOR YOU. Aaron. Alexander smiled. The next round had begun. The game would continue. -------[*]Checkmate I didn’t question my orders. Not that I had a choice. Not that any of us ever really had a choice. But still, I wondered at them. The tasks to which I was assigned...they were unrelated, seemingly pointless objectives for someone of...my level to carry out. But to question them was, well, out of the question. And so I drove on, lost in my thoughts, soon reaching an abandoned warehouse. I planted the device. Set it. Left. A routine detonation. Right? And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow connected to the other tasks. What if... A few conversations with my...coworkers, earlier today, came back to me. It seemed they’d been given similar orders, routine, seemingly inconsequential missions. These thoughts echoed through my mind as I drove on, soon arriving at a gas station, of all places. I parked at a meter. Filled the car’s tank. Slipped a folded scrap of loose-leaf paper into a crack between the pavement and the meter’s base. Paid for the gas with a credit card the boss gave me. Climbed back in the car. Drove off. This was the task that puzzled me the most. What significance could this possibly have? The boss was a brilliant guy. Too brilliant for his own good, it sometimes seemed. So it couldn’t be pointless. But then again... Suddenly something the boss had said, mentioned offhand, half-jokingly, it seemed, came back to me. Something about my being “another player in this game...” “So that’s what this is, eh?” I murmured. “A game?” An image of a chess board sprung involuntarily to my mind. Dozens upon dozens of inane moves, confusing the opponent, leading him down the wrong track, only realizing too late his mistake... My coworkers and I, we’d learned long ago that one simply did not play chess with the boss. Now, most men in the boss’s field, they prefer games with cards. Something they can rig, something they can always win ‘cause that’s how it’s set up. Not the boss. He never stooped to that level. He played chess, nothing else, and played it fair, too. And still, he always won. And in a moment, I became aware of my position – I was a simply a pawn in the boss’s surreal game. But I couldn’t dwell on that – I had work to do, and I was at the place where I had to do it. I parked the car in an alley and stepped out, inserting a cartridge into my gun as I did so. The job was a quick one. The man followed a strict routine, it seemed, as he appeared around the corner at the strike of ten, just as I’d been told he would. He was dead before he had registered my presence. As I looked upon his crumpled form, I felt an odd emotion, one entirely out of place in a job like this. I felt a pang of sympathy for the man, because he, like me, was just another pawn in the boss’s game. The emotion passed quickly, and I climbed back into the car, shaken slightly. I drove off, putting the man from my mind. I had work to do. -------[*]Inside the System “Unit Alpha Echo Niner!” a voice blares over the command radio in the F-42 air superiority fighter. “Hostiles on your six! You need’a lose ‘em!” With an expert banking curve the fighter loops over and flanks the enemy aircraft. A barrage of gunfire and heat-seeking missiles reduces the enemies to a blossom of flame. “Proceed to rally point and neutralize primary objectives!” The fighter swerves over the friendly base and picks off hostile bombers as they attempt to unleash their deadly payloads. As the last fall, the radio requests that he wait until friendly forces have cleared the LZ. The F-42 circles around, waiting for the enemy RPGs to stop firing… The archer crouches behind the brush, waiting for the enemies to walk into the perfect position. A scouting party, its members wearing tattered uniforms marked with Lord Malus’ insignia, moves into the trap. She nocks an arrow, draws… and looses it. It pierces the cranium of the nearest soldier and he falls, never having drawn his sword. The others spin around and scramble to grasp their weapons, but she has spent hours training to increase her accuracy and there is a guaranteed instant kill from headshots with piercer arrows. Only one remains, an enemy berserker, capable of taking massive damage and immune to headshot kills due to a powerful iron helmet. She switches to bleeder arrows and applies a poisonous salve, the last one in her inventory. The poison damages him over time and the bleeder arrows do increased damage, but his charge makes it up to her. Switching to her less-trained shortsword, she finishes him in close range just before he enters rage mode and becomes nearly invulnerable… The superhuman soldier charges into battle, energy shields protecting him from being annihilated by the wanton destruction the aliens are causing. A squadron of human-sized insectoid aliens charges into sight, only to fall at the hands of this concoction of cybernetics and human being that was bred for war. He vaults over a rise and looks up, to see two alien tanks waiting for him. Mortars streak skyward and then race back to the ground. The soldier dodges and raises a rocket launcher, releasing the last two 98 mm ordnance rounds into the nearer tank. It erupts into a greenish-yellow flame, the telltale sign of a downed enemy vehicle. An EMP grenade temporarily downs the second tank, but it won’t last and an enemy gunship is pulling into position. It’s low to the ground… perhaps… With his superhuman abilities, the soldier launches himself at the cockpit and wrenches it open. He throws out the struggling alien pilot and jumps into the seat. Familiar with alien technology, he uses what is now his gunship to lay fire on the now helpless enemy tank… Mortars explode all around as the assault force pounds through the city. A frag grenade is tossed around the corner, and takes out some enemies. Then… everything goes red. What? Oh, an exploding crate. Should’ve seen it. Restarting from last checkpoint… The advent of total immersion video gaming had suddenly made the games as valid as real life, to a dangerous degree. It became easy to lose yourself within the system, forgetting who you really were underneath. If it hadn’t happened in an automated world were robots fed you if you didn’t feed yourself, heck, people might have starved. The total immersion video gamer was at risk of becoming the ultimate solipsist: a human who could only trust the world of its mind to exist… and whose mind was trapped in a world of video games. -------[*]Playing Chess I decide to try the Grob on him. He looks overconfident. His eyebrows go up quizzically at my unusual move; he’s trying to rattle me. I have spent too much time playing chess – against computers and in real life. I even joined the chess team at my college – the kind of thing that makes all the pieces blur together, reduce individuality to the mindless faces of opponents, all intent on beating you for a few extra points. Computers are another story, mindless blobs of circuitry, dull and lifeless. No, take the person away from the game, and you’ve lost the essence of it, the tension. This person was someone different. A next door neighbor of mine, he seemed of the dangerous kind. The bright, yet quirky personality. The kind to make bad jokes, even at his own expense. “Trying something unusual, eh? Trying to throw me off?” I say nothing. Talking is an annoyance, and especially a distraction at table. I move out my knight, then my bishop, looking for the unusual opening lines that this particular attack would provide. He’s pulling a waiting game – off balance by my unusual attack, he’s trying to figure me out. A delay which I use to my advantage. I watch his carefree charm dissolve. Charm I once had, but no longer use. Too dangerous. Too easily to be misunderstood. It’s easier to be honest, and say what you mean. Say what you mean and mean what you say. I’ve seen them all before. They all think that I will be swayed by petty words, words that make little sense. But put them in front of the board, and they lose all their nerve. The pieces are hard and cold as ice, and as honest as nails. My weapons, incapable of subterfuge. I take his rook. He looks about, baffled. So easy. So foolproof. He flails about, trying to take my pieces, but it is over. Over before it began. “Checkmate.” He shakes his head, bitterly acknowledging his own failure. He’ll be back, maybe in a week or so, thinking he can beat me this time, I think, watching him scuttle away. * * * Another day, a new strategy. I notice the brightness in his eyes has faded, but its still there, a dull gleam. He looks tired, this time. Pieces wave their ways around each other, taking each other off the board in the same rhythmic dance. Hmm…complicated situation. He doesn’t give me an evil grin like before, just a cold, blank stare. I don’t have a choice. I make the best move, lose my queen. The daggers of the board are now aimed at me. It’s starting to get dark – the street lights will come on soon. I carefully adjust my remaining pieces. Cold pierces into me as my defense starts to unravel. “Checkmate.” He gets up and walks away. “Hey, wait up!” I shout after him, but he doesn’t answer me. It’s rather cold. I get up and pick up the pieces. Walk away. Because that’s all you can do with a mirror.

[Ballom Nom Nom]

Went with number one. Almost voted for five, but the wrenching change in tone at the last minute was rather offputting. IMO, the author had a good scene in progress but suddenly left it to moralize.~B~

[fishers64]

Self-voted, as usual.

[Excelsior]

I voted for 4.1 was a cool idea, but I didn't like the ambiguous ending. Also, Gonan is, in effect, his side's military commander. If he wasn't prepared for these decisions, why did he become a player?2 seemed a little complex. I'm still not entirely clear on it - what's Burke's view of what just happened? Why does he think there was be a threatening recording in the bathroom?3 - well, 3 was mine.I haven't read it since I posted it, but I'm pretty sure it could use some polishing. Also, I'm really regretting that name choice. At least three other stories for this theme had some form of the name Alex. *facepalm* Feeling uncreative right now.4 was cool. It had a feeling of scope and complexity which I liked. It seemed the best to me.5 just seemed kinda choppy to me. Military paragraph. Fantasy paragraph. Sci-fi paragraph. Death and respawn. Paragraph about the total immersion gaming that we now know the last three took place in. I felt like it needed more of a unifying element between scenes.6 was my second favorite - it came down to that or 4. But it was a bit too depressing. Chess would appear to be a very bad influence on people.Anyway, may the best story win!-Excelsior

[Legolover-361]

2 seemed a little complex. I'm still not entirely clear on it - what's Burke's view of what just happened? Why does he think there was be a threatening recording in the bathroom?

I'm the writer of Entry 2. I don't know if I understand your questions: Burke thought he was being threatened at gunpoint before Parke revealed that the voice was just coming from a speaker; he had no reason to suspect someone was after him (after all, he had no security), and he had just experienced a surge of panic and adrenaline, so why should he think some substance on the speaker had knocked him out?I didn't write "Texas Hold 'Em" to be complex, which is why I feel I may be misinterpreting your confusion.

[Velox]

Polling period over; poll closed.