I regarded the chessboard, Onyx and teak with cut-glass pieces, and attempted to anticipate his strategy—a mostly futile ambition, even after a hundred and sixteen years. We were sitting at a game table in Central Park, or at least a more-than-reasonable facsimile of Central Park. The physical real estate encompassed a pie wedge of about thirty meters at its widest end. Squirrel and pigeon society existed only in the holographic scrim that enclosed a few benches and tables, the real grass and one Japanese Maple, in the dappled shade of which we played our weekly game. The sky was dialed down to near-gloaming, in consideration of my eye re-gens, which were at a sensitive stage. I pushed my bishop into a weak counter position. Laird blew air out of his nose. “Contrary to rational expectations,” he said, “you’re presenting less of a challenge over time.” “Maybe I’m bored.”
