Yamin wasn’t just God. How could such a complicated man be just… whatever?

At his command, figures in robes lined up in a column and, without lingering in the doorways, cleared the room. Behind them trailed languid girls, brimming with tea, the muse-stricken bro, and even the hippies. The sound engineers were the last to leave, along with the kind demon of this place—the man with the global eyes. Some people called him Bozz—a hybrid of 'booze' and 'boss'.

The crowd scattered across the territory of the Museum of Human Achievement. Some went to rendezvous with Zac, others to listen to some Ruido, and a few to the indecently lofty exhibit in the outside trailer. Protected from fiery hail by cybernetic yarmulkes and never once shedding their robes, thirty-two gray figures moved tirelessly from one point of this hyperspace to another.

Rachel and I were mere mortals, and the announced weather conditions didn’t suit us at all. Squinting, we dashed across the outdoor area separating the hall from the buffet. At the counter, we ordered an outdated and long-forgotten tea called Winter’s Tale. The bartender remembered it instantly. We went to claim the burnt-cigar couch once belonging either to W.C. Clark or to Floyd Council—who’d tell now?

The buffet wasn’t empty. It couldn’t even hold ten of those who had vacated the hall. Only the boldest and most familiar stayed behind. And so did we—bold enough to count ourselves among the familiar.

Rachel was playing the important role of a journalist. I, being Yamin’s best friend and eternal rival, was there because Yamin couldn’t kick me out even if he wanted to. Honestly, I belonged elsewhere—in another Austin pearl called Co-Lab Projects. There, paintings and wine waited for me. But what paintings, what wine could compare to an 8x8 cybernetic mystery and a cup of Winter’s Tale?

Bozz and a pair of sound engineers approached the buffet counter with pure pragmatism. Ordering burritos, they settled professionally at a table that propped up the ceiling—which here, too, hung precariously close to the floor.

The buffet was now full of a very particular crowd. Not just a crowd, really—a group of people united by the absence of a goal. They silently downed bottled beer and debated myths about the solstice. It was June 21st, and I still couldn’t grasp what darkness Yamin had mentioned to Kasparov. Forty days and nights remained before any kind of dark—unless you counted the mob of cops dispersing a rally.

To our right, at the same table, two buffet regulars sat down and began setting up chess pieces. We glanced their way. I wanted to say something but didn’t. Instead, I introduced Rachel to comrade Gibstein, who loomed at the head of our table, shamelessly flashing his camera lens. Before him: a tiny cup of coffee grounds, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. His cunning eyes swiftly scanned Rachel from filter to flash.

“Pleasure to meet you,” said a satisfied Aaron, extending a hand from the spacious sleeve of his red shirt. The kind of shirt worn by the finest descendants of Zoan. Rachel shook his hand, her nails immaculate, and smiled.

After a brief discussion about camera gear, Rachel turned her attention to me, for some reason deciding I was a suitable respondent.

“Tell me, is it true that Yamin wanted to summon Hikaru Nakamura from Sunrise?”

“Summon where?!” I was baffled. Did Rachel really not know Hikaru hated Austin’s weather?

“Well, just like Kasparov, to play those unusual chess games. I heard it from someone on staff. It would’ve been a true sensation!”

“Oh, so you’re short on sensations!” I caught on. “I’m afraid Hikaru isn’t as professional as Kasparov. And as for using people as chess pieces—the latter has been doing that his whole life. That’s mastery, not a sensation.”

Genesis was playing, and we fell silent, savoring the closeness of the space. Thick, wet-asphalt curls hid Rachel’s charming profile from me. Instead, Aaron Gibstein’s bearded face grinned my way. He stretched his right hand forward and slightly to the left, aimed his camera at Rachel, and pressed the shutter. Rachel snapped out of her Brazilian trance and seemed about to say something to Gibstein, but didn’t. Instead, she grabbed her own camera and fired back. Satisfied with the outcome of their duel, she resumed our conversation:

“By the way, I’ve known Kasparov since 1997 when he lost to that IBM machine—can’t remember the name. That was a sensation, I must say.”

“It’s nice to be known for your defeats… Ever seen chess played with live people?”

“Definitely not online. And not with those creepy electrodes. But once, back in Illinois.”

“Online works miracles, Rachel, trust me. Imagine Kasparov sitting here instead of in his other Russia. You’d think the bigger deal would be him playing against the evil genius’s creation. But no! It’s online that makes this act iconic. If I were you, I’d focus on that in your article.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Glennie. Online is everywhere now. Nothing special about it.”

“That’s exactly it! Think about it: the most valuable thing humanity’s invented—a tool to connect anyone, anywhere, at any time—is practically free. And what do people do? They distance themselves. They connect only out of necessity!” I pulled out my phone and read a note: “Before salvation, arrogance will prevail, writers will abuse wisdom, and fear of sin will be scorned.”

“Oh, so you’re making progress with the Talmud!”

“Not my progress. But tell me this: they’ll abuse wisdom. What is wisdom?”

“It’s obvious,” Rachel replied irritably, “harmony with the world around you!”

“So, proper connection with others, right?”

“But online doesn’t provide that! You can do good deeds or sin online!”

“True, but you do have the choice. Online offers limitless possibilities to connect, and people choose fleeting needs.” Gibstein dozed on my shoulder. “And Kasparov? His choice is either cheap PR—playing human chess at the Waterloo Park—or showing the world a model of ideal management.”

“Ideal, sure. He could still lose—the past 30 years have seen some progress.”

“Exactly,” Gibstein chimed in cheerfully, snapping Rachel straight on the nose.

She whipped out her camera like a cowboy, and the rough, white surface of the weeping ceiling behind Aaron briefly lit up with a flash. The shadow of his long, unkempt hair reminded me of an unscalable mountain.

“Gibstein,” Rachel said, staring sharply into the photographer’s eyes, “are you Jewish?”

“I’m even more American than the Americans!” Aaron replied, with a mischievous smile.

“Then l’chaim,” Rachel raised her mug of Winter’s Tale. The three of us clinked, sipped the tea-wine liquid, and Rachel grabbed my shoulder, standing up: “We’re being called, Glennie. Aaron, drop by if you’re interested.”

We really were being called. The rehearsal was starting, and the hall was already swallowing people in gray robes, fearlessly stepping through the fiery hail.