The hall was almost set. God Yamin barked out final orders. A woman, an orange emblem on her shoulder, fussed over each robed figure, carefully sticking a black or white chess piece on their chest. No opting out. Whatever piece you got, that was you. Inside each sticker, a chip—it glowed, telling the figure exactly where it belonged. The black bishop, on a white square, had to hit C8. The fourth white pawn from the left? D2, no detours.

Sticker-fied, each robed person shuffled to the sysadmin. He’d check the electrodes in their yarmulkes, tweak 'em if needed, then wave them toward the board.

The board now. Laid out with black and white squares, forty centimeters to a side. The same orange-emblazoned man, his emblem a digital [at] with tiny people inside, swept specks off the squares with a soft, long-handled broom.

All robed figures? Told to ditch their shoes. White mats for the "eaten" lay on either side of the board.

Chairs lined almost the entire perimeter of the hall, up to four rows deep. Yamin, majestic as a king, sat enthroned at his desk, pushed against the back wall. The screen above his head split in two. The big half: an empty chessboard. The small half: Kasparov, chin propped on intertwined hands, staring into a webcam. He wasn’t looking at us, but up—probably at the projected image of his webcam feed in the hall.

“A couple messages before we kick off,” Yamin said into his mic. “No time limits. You can only snap photos when the grandmaster’s piece moves on the board. Try to skip the flash. First row, keep your feet pulled back. Phones off. We’re good. Grab your seats, those in the back! Pronto.”

Yamin waited for absolute silence. Then he asked Kasparov:

“Garry, you ready? Connection solid?”

“Yeah, Tim. Let’s do this.”

“Starting,” Yamin said, pressing Enter with a ceremonial finger.

The sound system drowned the hall in a soothing rustle and the thin notes of a harmonium. The crowd of dark-gray robed people started forming sensible patterns.

To the tune of divine noise-music, the first barefoot steps hit the board, moving unhurriedly toward Yamin’s side of the hall. White bishops, knights, rooks, queen, king—they lined up neatly, perfectly organized, on the back rank, backs to the maestro. Pawns, both colors, followed just as primly on ranks 2 and 7. No shoving, no tripping. The navigation system mapped every "figure’s" trajectory ten steps ahead.

Overhead lights went out. The hall now lived by the screen’s glow and the spotlights hanging from the equipment console, bathing the chessboard in soft light. Even the squares themselves lit up.

As the last black figures stepped onto the board, the hall door jingled, slamming against something outside. A skinny man with a beard, coat unbuttoned, drifted in from the balcony. He strolled into the hall, pulling off his beret, shaking fiery hailstones from it straight into the hair of the audience members chilling in the back row. No casualties, thank God—the hail was three thousand years old. The latecomer’s face was a blur. He moved between the chairs, stopped at the row closest to the blacks, looked around, spotted a free seat, and stepped towards it. With a jerky motion, he smoothed his rare hair and sat. As he settled into the chair, Rachel and a few other photographers captured him. In the flash of the cameras, I saw Mike Alewitz.

“Friends, now seriously, kill the flashes. The lighting rig will be going full-tilt during the game. We’re starting. Grandmaster plays black.”

Saying this, Yamin hit Enter again. A low intro tone filled the air, and a white pawn from D2 confidently stepped to D4. Its move was underscored by a soft, whirring soundscape. The white square briefly flashed yellow, then went dark again. On the screen behind Yamin, the board’s action mirrored itself in computer graphics.

A second after the white pawn stopped, two black pawns on B7 and C7 parted ways. A black knight from B8 glided smoothly, unobstructed, to C6. The black square washed over the audience in a blue wave of light, then faded. The pawns behind the knight closed ranks. White’s next move: E2 to E4. Kasparov’s D7 to D6 pawn was met by the computer putting a dark-squared bishop on F4. Another black pawn stepped into fate: E7 to E5. And was instantly eaten by the bishop.

Eaten, but only halfway. The audio program let out an indecent crunching sound. The mind-control program kicked the black pawn off the board, and it smoothly landed on a white mat. But the bishop? It glitched. Wouldn't budge to take the pawn’s vacated spot. Kasparov was already trying to make his next move, to eat the bishop, but his screen only showed the digital board. And the bishop wasn't where it was supposed to be. The sysadmin, in his socks, walked over to the bishop and pulled off its yarmulke. Fingers tracing points on the inner surface, he watched for reactions from the gear overhead. The guy freed from the yarmulke, bald and blinking, squinted. All his comrades stood impassively, eyes closed.

“Navigation error!” he yelled at Yamin. Yamin ran over, and they whispered about the problem.

I winked at Rachel, already thinking about my exhibition's success. Yamin, meanwhile, returned to his spot.

“Friends,” he addressed everyone through the mic, “We apologize, but you’ll have to hang out outside a bit longer. It’s a rehearsal, you know how it goes—all the bugs crawl out. Garry, don’t disconnect,” he hit Esc on his keyboard, returning the robed figures their consciousness. “All staff and all pieces, please stay.”