The Executioner's Gambit

"Bishop's pawn to Knight."
My pawn smiles at me in hope. To my left, I see the little floor robots scurry around the immense black steel and white iron floor. One crawls under the chair where my pawn is chained; her eyes never break contact with me. Another positions itself under the chair of my opponent's bishop. I wasn't sure what she was staring at, but it was not Zoey. The haggard woman in the sweat-covered jumpsuit simply stared past my pawn's chair as the bots moved into position. A bell rings, and the sleeping rook begins to cry. I try to hide my irritation.

This game has already been underway for nearly three hours now. All of our friends, family, and associates who could have screamed at us have already used their last obscenities and their last prayers. I thought I had prepared myself for how distracting the early game was in that sense. I don't see how it should have been so difficult. I have moved so many to death as John "Caulker," the great revolutionary; this should not have been difficult.

Perhaps it was the environment. The old warehouse that was our last stand was at least "cozy" in its barricades, windows, and lights. But here, under the fluorescent lights of this game board, our "arena," where nothing is visible save the board and the players: the screaming children, family, and associates of my colleague and I were aggravating.

Easy to lose focus.

I focused my attention away from the hoarse cries of the rook to glance at my opponent. He sat four spaces away from me. "Roman," notorious kingpin of the Southwest. A seasoned player of this game, he has managed to beat his opponent before and won his freedom. Some Dunning-Kruger accountant who fancied himself the next Bernie Madoff. I saw the tapes. The fool failed to understand the "meta" here: Executioner's Chess justice is so much more than its namesake. Roman just stared expressionless at the screen on his chair. He didn't even blink as the chair holding the Black Knight tipped over. A cry from the woman was heard, then a scream as the electricity pulsed through her. His eyes never broke from his little board.

I scanned my eyes at his remaining pieces; the queen's knight was a young girl with a similarly hooked, albeit unbroken nose. Rook was a child—his? Perhaps, but did it matter?
That's the trick with the "meta." When The Fictional Government captures us, we are captured as a cohort, along with friends, family, and associates. We get to choose who gets assigned to what piece, and should I win against our opponent, I and whatever pieces I have left go free. Half the game is trying to determine who your opponent actually cares about or might be squeamish to execute. I’ve seen the child used before in the Hookman's gambit. I can't just assume that's his piece. For all I know, Roman created a whole second family just to play again.

I steel my gaze to look at the board again. Roman shouts his move, "Rook to Bishop's Pawn." I can't ignore the child's cries now. Its hungered and hoarse screams have moved from the edge of the board, inching closer toward me. A rush of emotions seems to move through Zoey's face: shock, fear, anger. She hurls obscenities at me in between shouts to her god. I don't look at her or her infant executioner but lock my gaze at Roman in what I determine should be resolve. Roman lets out a soft smile.

I try not to smile back and keep my gaze locked on his. He took the bait. Zoey was a loyal servant of the cause and a fun thing to do on away missions, but she always had delusions of her importance. So many missions were almost ruined by her moves between bravado and hesitancy. Her masquerade as my "closest comrade" was cute at first, but at times nearly cost me several of my best fighters. This was her chance to repay me. I placed her as a pawn, knowing she would make a fuss about it throughout the early game. Amid all the screaming and fear, I played along. I promised her she just had to make it to the end, and she would be my queen.

I have already eliminated the pieces that I assumed would be Roman's actual "soft spots." It’s a delicate balance to play, though. I avoided the old woman as queen until practical considerations of chess made that impossible. I lost my brother, the rook, in that. Several longtime friends of his looked to be placed as pawns. Perhaps a feint?

So far, I have been able to keep my true core piece hidden:
Queen's pawn, Michael Bush, my protégé.
Should I survive, we will rebuild the movement again; should I fall, he will be let go and will spread my legend and my banner across this blighted nation. I have been careful to mask him as a henchman, focusing my attention on my lover, the pawn, and my mother, the knight. I move my bishop to take the rook. I watch for any change in expression from King Roman, and his expression does not change. He orders himself closer to me.

The platform robots carry the opposing king one square closer to me. His blank stare doesn't change, eyes locked on me. A hostile thought infiltrates my mind, what happens if I do go free? I order the bishop forward. Check. He moves himself forward again. No expression. What's his plan? I order my bishop to take his pawn. My protégé screams obscenities at me as he moves. The thought enters again,
Do I need to eliminate him too?
Can we be free together?
I try to keep his face out of sight, but I catch a glimpse: the look of resignation and disgust. Meanwhile Roman only has three pieces remaining, but he moves himself only forward. Why?

Roman's blank stare pierces through me. I send another attack at his few remaining pieces. His expression doesn't change. Does it even matter to him? My bishop is weeping to himself, begging me to kill him. I don't have any way to inspire him; I'm running out of moves. I take his last rook. No expression from Roman. He moves himself again. Now only a blank space between me and him. I look up at him and scream, "Who are you trying to save?" His face is unchanging, but his response carries a tone of flat humor, shared when an obvious point is made.

"Myself," he responds.

I look down at the small board on my lap, my shackled hands white-hot with rage. 

"The most important piece is the king," I mirthlessly mutter. 

"Knight to F6," shouts Roman. I'm trapped between him and Roman. The bell rings three times. 

It’s checkmate. 

And thank God!

I never want to play this game again.