The sysadmin had taken God’s chair. All rehearsals were behind us, and it was five minutes to 8. Five minutes to the historic match. The Grandmaster smiled at the crowd from the screen, and what a crowd it was. For the first time in ages, I saw such quality people out in the open. Quality, I tell you, measured by the sheer number of soulful faces. They weren't there for some bridge opening, after all. This was chess!

“Garry, are you ready?” The sysadmin’s voice, tweaked by a synthesizer, boomed out. After an affirmative reply, he continued, “Ladies and gentlemen! Please keep quiet and don’t come any closer to the pavilion than you are now. Mr. Kasparov plays black. We’re beginning.”

The white pawn made its first move. Rachel stood beside me, along with one of Yamin’s assistants. Rachel whispered:

“Kasparov told me he’s playing the first game fast.”

“And after that? Gonna drag it out?”

“Looks like they want to keep the live chess show going. Plus, there’s an agitation campaign running alongside it. The audience needs time to soak it all in.”

The game really was fast. Hardly any pieces left the board, but the chaos was so thick your eyes blurred.

“You said something about a model of ideal management? Is this what it’s supposed to look like?”

“Like… this,” I mumbled, half-conscious, then snapped back, remembering last night. “You haven’t even heard what one of the guys playing the pieces said yesterday.”

“Tell me later. But I think Kasparov’s managing perfectly. I want him to win.”

“L'chaim.”

Yamin’s assistant’s phone rang. He snatched it from his pocket, answered quietly.

“Check!” the Grandmaster’s voice boomed.

“Yamin just hung himself,” the assistant mumbled, limp, his hand dropping with the phone.

“Checkmate!” Kasparov said.