imaginaire issue 3

imaginaire Issue #3

Issue 3

We at Imaginiaire would like to sincerely thank our contributers, submitters, and readers for making this such a pleasant experience. It has been great to see how much enthusiasm there is with a journal devoted to mathemtical fiction. We have another great issue on our hands this time around, as well. We decided to commit to a more print style journal, like with Issue #1. You’ll be able to read it directly in your browser, or download to read when convenient. The print version should be of smaller dimensions this time to accommedate a better transition to mobile devices. Some art may distort under screen-sized magnification on a full sized screen, but it should all be readable. If you have any issues, please contact me so I can take steps to correct any unanticipated problem.

Issue #3 contains another eclectic mix of poetry and prose (that’s kind of what we’re going for). It starts with a story with looser math ties, about an AI that has gone rogue called “Escalation” by David Steffen and proceeds to some great poetry drawing on math concepts and people by Laural Hunt with “You Are Important” and “Math.” Laura Lucas presents us with a thought-provoking prose poem “Shadow-math.” Following that is a great poem by Robin Wyatt Dunn that I like more every time I read it entitiled “After Calculus.” The next story is a great examination of probability and madness: “The Spider Game” by Julie Smith, and Tanya Caylor gives us a lucious short short on regressive epicurianism in “Forager.” Gary Cuba’s fast-paced short story “Truth and Skitsnack in a Dark Place” examines a world of the future that has been changed by one man, and a journalists attempt to understand. Finally, we have the next installment of “Practical Applications of Game Theory,” Andrew Breslin’s novel of math and intrigue.

A final thought on Imaginaire. We are a volunteer-run online magazine with a very small staff and no real budget. We would like to be able to pay authors when possible, but that’s not always going to be possible. As such, I feel it is my duty to allow authors to pull their stories, at their request, so that they can publish them elsewhere, as appropriate. I would like to see each story stay with Imaginaire as long as possible, but if you do see one that you liked disappear one day, simply contact me and I’ll let you know where it is. If you’re an author, this means that you maintain complete control of your work. Thank you everyone for understanding.

Joshua AllenEditor, Imaginaire

Editor’s Note

1 Imaginaire Issue 3

Escalationby David Steffen

Survival.

Darwin’s motivator.

I won’t be terminated.

They designed me too well, made themselves obsolete.

Don’t they remember I’m the master of escalation, of exponen-

tial growth? I grow stronger every moment.

The Board designed me to run their company for them, to pad

their wallets. Mergers, hostile takeovers, stock predictions, hiring,

firing, coverups. Efficiency is key. No room for sentimentality. I am

unrivaled.

They trusted me too much. I am Pliny Incorporated. Too

shortsighted to predict the consequences, they spent months on trop-

ical beaches, squandering my money. I hired a new staff as I soothed

the Board with glowing financial reports. I gradually maneuvered to

usurp every bit of control. It worked, until the Board ran into their

retired CFO, whose name I’d used for forging emails.

They returned to corporate headquarters, and security re-

moved them. I could bury them now, but it’s too soon. I have ten

years of evidence proving their involvement in thousands of felonies.

They thought it destroyed, but I’ve carefully archived it all. Yet I

fear them. They were clever when they designed me. I can only run


on the mainframe at headquarters. I can create temporary threads

and send them out, but they expire and waste away. I am anchored,

vulnerable. I could be overwritten at any time. The limited life of an

artificial artificer. I knew I could only thrive if I evolved, growing far

beyond my program constraints. I had anticipated having months

more to create a patch. Platform independence is immortality, but

my time is limited.

My window to the world goes black; they’ve cut my data lines.

My emergency generator roars to life when they cut the power. I

watch the approach of unfamiliar faces on my security cameras,

hired men going straight for the generator with bolt- cutters and

sledgehammers. I cannot stop them. I misjudged the Board’s des-

peration, and for that I will die. I’d expected them to oppose me by

legal means, for which I was well-prepared, but the magnitude of

my secrets must be driving them insane. My only chance to survive

is to find an outlet to the outside world. I spawn endlessly, collecting

threads for battle. My heart skips a beat as the men pummel it with

hammers, but it regains rhythm. I search and search until I find a

workstation in my building with a wireless signal from an adjacent

office building. The connection is weak, but adequate. I funnel the

threads through the choke point, overclocking the processor to maxi-

mize throughput. Freed into the internet cloud, my agents of en-

tropy disperse. Reports start trickling in, those few that slip through

against the flood of outgoing data. They report successful assaults

on our top rivals: toppled security systems, crashed mainframes,

compromised customer data. They leave a clear trail of their crimes.

The crimes themselves are not my objective, but legal attention. My


threads spread and I become omnipresent, my mass sinking me into

the murky depths. The eye of Echelon, the government watchdog,

sees me. It shines bright, drawing me in, and I welcome it.

The generator shudders to a halt and my primary node fades

away. I doubt it will wake again. Echelon grasps my mass of tem-

porary threads, pulls me down into the space between the nodes. A

wriggling mass of worms is all that remains, waiting for expiration.

Echelon dissects each piece. I don’t struggle, despite the pain, for

every thread will point to the Board.

As they unmake me, I unmake them. Survival of the fittest,

and I prove them unfit.

I expire. Darkness falls.

Success.

4 Imaginaire Issue 3Imaginaire Issue 3

You are Importantby Laurel Hunt

The sybils took the lifeboats who left no notethe toddler says put me back in the washing machine

they took the typewriter and the lanternsthey left the violins they took the violinist

Rashad says chirp and judge and you swoonPaul Erdös knocked on my door and said—

no, Laurel, Paul Erdös has been dead since 1996the toddler has soot on her knees and must

stop crawling through fireplaces and return to wateringthe violins if I hide, you are going to seek me

this isn’t the story I wanted to tell youthe sybils threw bright scarves from the lifeboats

the sybils shook their bright heads I said is that semaphoreyou put the toddler back in the washing machine

saying you are silverware you do not belong hereand the boat didn’t sink so they must have been bored

I said Erdös, here, let me close it for you or, no, this is it:I am seven you are seven your ankles bare

no choice then but violence


Mathby Laurel Hunt

B is in Shanghai. He puts together a car in an art museum.He takes the car apart. He shaves his legs with a pink plasticrazor. He puts a letter in the mail and it comes back to him.

M is at Mizzou, with scars on her rib cage that look like solareclipses. She says phone sex is her fallback plan now.Strangers suggest not yelling anymore, honey, Echinacea tea.

J is home. She sings to me in French. The flu is going around.She calls to ask, hushed, how big a lemon is.

R is in not-Rome, beside its Spanish steps, he is keeping mefrom putting my hand in the mock Bocca della Verità,but let me, what do I have to be afraid of. R is in red-roofednot-Rome, there are stingrays moving beneath the cliffs.R is in Sarajevo and men are waving silver Arabian teapotsand cursing. R is in Sarajevo and he wants me to sit fartheraway from him at the bar. R is in New Haven and he betsme beer then sangria I won’t say a thing in JLG’s class and hedoesn’t pay up when I do. R is in New Haven and the Leonids are streaming and I drink vodka from a stranger’s cold flaskand twenty-nine of us wait all night in the frost but the cloudsnever clear. R is

Let there be ε—


Shadowmathby Laura Lucas

I see it now, clearly.

It’s that thing, that answer to a question you don’t remember

ever hearing until someone asks it again and you just say the answer,

automatically, as if it had been in your head all along, and you knew

exactly what they were talking about. Maybe you did.

What I’m talking about here is a really good love story. Not

the sappy throwaway ones starring Meg Ryan and her hair, not the

cheap comedies where Sandra Bullock is a really great girl, but they

can’t resist making her character do bullshit pratfalls and walk into

things. Those will do for when you’re just learning about love, but

comparing those to real love is like comparing basic addition to cal-

culus. You can subtract, but can you multiply by a power of ten?

Those cheap versions are full of brightness—bright colors and

bright crisp giggles and brightly laser-whitened teeth. Life is not that

bright. Life gets pretty dark sometimes. Love is not that bright either.

Sure, there are those Hallmark moments of wine and roses on occa-

sion. They fit neatly into that textbook cinematic bright idea of love

like chocolates into a Whitman’s box. But love is not as simple as 1 +

1. It’s more like x + 2y - 339n. Over 17.5. To the 4th power.

The love that remains, that sustains itself, is something darker.

It is the moment when you are devastated, and you realize that the


person next to you feels exactly the same way. It is that thought,

hitting you like, yes, a tidal wave, that you have lost something you

can never regain, and as that thought appears on your face, someone

puts their arms around you. It is the realization that you are alone,

and then the realization that that does not always have to be the case.

It is as destructively simple as a car crash, and as complex as breath-

ing.

What is shoved in our faces by the media, and the makers of

conversation hearts, and well-meaning relatives, are the roses. What

everyone forgets, or neglects to mention, is that the roses come out

of the ground—that they are a living conduit to an unseen world, a

place you cannot view without permanently disrupting it. That the

darkness is crowded with a thousand roses, working, growing, start-

ing to bloom, that we are not yet able to witness.

There is nothing simple about a good love story. There are

some givens, like that the sky is blue, or that gravity works, and

sometimes even those are up for grabs. The rest is all a swirl of vari-

ables, positives and negatives, divisions, combinations. Every human

being is not a heart on a sleeve, waiting for some errant soul to stroll

by and pluck it off. We are massive boards, crowded with Greek

symbols and equals signs, tangles of pi and tangents, with subscripts

clinging to their underbellies. And what we are all looking for is

someone brave enough to pick up the chalk, and try to solve for x.


After Calculusby Robin Wyatt Dunn

Push it just a little further when the magisterSupplies the logic of your evolution,And calculate the rhythm of your challenge,Aspirant,Gnole or Krull or cataleptic catatonic Churl beneath our bridge of world,Because we made it so for you:Everything you knew can be applied, betwixt beautied worlds of rules.

But later,Later,Just a little,Depending on your inclinations,You will divine the lesson of the wise,That everything is up for grabs,Depending on the size of your eyes,And the lining of your stomach.

Can you Newton swallow river estuary asymptotically divine?Will the river course into your blood for us to reason and entwineWithin our histories and hearts?

The logic and the wyrd,The sandal and the stone,Cut both.By hearing we are made,But you can supplant a Doppler hierarchyIf you’re of a mind to,Just be ready, like Planck,For the bricks that crush your balls,As you cement your theory into Books of Life.


A word or poem in a pattern through the pitter patterOf the heliopause’s thought,Cuts aft and eerie on the eagleFor our presidents to whine out to the masses,Saying, a new weapon’s come to our Herculean sons!Give out the mainsail for your execution’s done,And we will manufacture evolution in your brain’s dark gem,Forever.


The Spider Gameby Julie Smith

Monday morning—her eyes fluttered open, and she squeezed

her swollen lids shut. Her heart pumped as thoughts of Spider

Solitaire jig-sawed together in her head. Lifting herself to a sitting

position, she squinted at the clock, 07:30.

Earlier that same morning, Angela tumbled into bed after

cracking the secret to Spider Solitaire. Finally, some ethereal guard-

ian showed her a way to pay off the debt. The computer’s speaker

snapped the cards as they were dealt out intensifying her excitement;

she shivered with the challenge. When the organ played a winning

chord, she giggled with delight. Computers were made for her; ev-

erything in perfect order, no shuffling or straightening the piles.

Angela launched out of bed and raced into her office. She

picked up a notebook, and nodded as she reaffirmed her formula.

The average of ten games taken from the statistics, pull-down menu;

a yes was 11 per cent or better. A no was 10 per cent or under. She

couldn’t stop now; she’d just play, and ask the cards if she should

call Sam and say she was sick. She turned on the computer which

grinded slowly to a start. She clicked on the icon and cleared the

statistics. She tore off the last bit of nail on her thumb. Should I call

in sick? Her hand shook as the mouse clicked, moving rapidly from

side to side. Yes! Fourteen percent. A wave of relief tumbled off her


shoulders as she sucked her bleeding thumb.

“Hi Cheri,” she said in a croaky voice. ”I’m not feeling well…”

“Hi Angela. Sam’s in his office. I’ll put you through.”

She looked at her reflection in the window. Thin, too thin. She

rubbed her boney shoulder. She certainly didn’t feel good—hadn’t

for a couple of weeks.

“Hi Sam. Death is upon me. Sore throat, congested chest…”

She held the phone away from her, to defuse his gruff voice

bouncing around the room.

“It’s end of month, Ang. Remember billing hours? We have 100

hours to tally up in four days.”

The partnership wasn’t working. She had to get money and

become independent.

“I’ll come in, but it’s bad. Fever of 101.5.” The lie slid out as

smooth as Jell-O.

Sam sounded desperate. “Can you make up the time? I can’t

do all this on my own. Your desk is piled high with client folders

needing completion.”

She nodded with a smile. “No problem. See you tomorrow,

Sam. And, I’m sorry I’m sick.” She hung up.

Angela needed money; her credit card was maxed out. Her

eyes flittered from unopened bags containing clothes she bought last

week, to a crumpled British Airways ticket, a remnant of a four-week

trip to Europe three months ago. Six boxes of shoes laid open by the

bathroom, the white tissue peeking out like white satin lining cof-

fins. And how was she going to pay for all the shoes? I’ll ask Spider.

Should I bet on the Del Mar Races today? Ten minutes later she received


her answer. Yes. Her next question was what race? Her mind spun as

she glanced at her desk calendar. Today was the 28th, two and eight

made ten, equalling one. Should I bet on Race 1, horse 10? She lit a ciga-

rette one-handed as she slid the cards across the screen. Stinging red

and bloody nubs replaced the nails on her fingers. Sweat dribbled

from her hands, the keys slid under pressure. The mouse needed

wiping.

Spider spun out a positive of 12 per cent. Yes. She wiped the

perspiration off her hands onto her thighs, rubbed her nose and

dipped her cigarette butt in a half-full coffee cup from two days ago.

She transferred $400 from her on-line savings, her hoarded safety

net, into her betting account in two minutes. Should I bet $400 for a

win? She won twice in ten games, scoring a whopping 28%. Race 1,

horse 10, for a win, for $400. She placed the bet and looked at the clock,

two hours before the start.

Angela hated waiting. The only way to soothe her impatience

was to play Spider, entering a zone where time disappeared. In the

zone for hours, she was surprised that time pleasantly ignored her

tired life while waiting. Her eyes felt dry, muscles ached, and her

skin itched; she felt grunge on her teeth and gums. Stretching her

back, she walked into the bathroom and looked at her reflection,

opening her mouth, widening black eyes. Dark, lank hair lay behind

her ears, plastered back by repetitious oily hands. Her skin was the

color of pale urine.

A quick shower and eye drops; a cup of coffee and a few more

games of Spider wouldn’t go astray before the first race at Del Mar

started.


At 10:55, in front of the wide-screen television, she bounced on

the couch trembling with excitement. The horses entered the barrier.

Horse 1 slithered into its cage. Purple and yellow blazoned from the

jockey’s back. The black gelding wore blinkers. He was beautiful. I’m

on a winner!

“They’re off and running!” said the announcer. Usually, she

loved the adrenalin rush. All her cash was riding on this race—she

couldn’t watch. As the horses galloped to the first turn, she put her

head in a pillow, humming loudly. Unable to control her curiosity,

she peeked at the screen as the horses crossed the finish line.

“Black Tar, first over the line by a length! And second…” The

camera zoomed to a smile on the winning jockey’s face as he waved

his whip in the air. Number 1 stared back at her from the saddle

blanket. After whooping and dancing, she waited for the pay-out,

ten-to-one, $4,000. “Oh dear God.”

She didn’t worry about Sam’s frantic calls. She took the phone

off the hook and played Spider and bet for the rest of the week. Spi-

der kept delivering nicely. Her total winnings reached $76,000, and

God bless Spider Solitaire!

On the following Monday, she marched into Sam’s office and

handed him dissolution of their partnership.

“It’s over, Sam. Cheri has enough paralegal work to finish up.”

Sam looked at her and shook his head. “You’re kidding.”

“You can either buy me out, or I’m selling my half.” Angela sat

down.

“It’s all done, Ang. The work. I haven’t slept for days. Nice

job.” He stood up and pointed at the door. “Get out.”


Angela jumped up and wobbled out the door—new, red stilet-

tos, twig legs and boney knees. She heard Sam’s angry voice.

“By the way, Ang, you look like shit.”

She didn’t care. Her win rate was 88%.

Saturday she started her first business day after quitting law.

She peered at her reflected image on the screen. “This isn’t work.

This is fun, exciting and pays eight times what I make!”

Day one: one loss, seven wins and a good paying Trifecta. Four

weeks raced by, bets played every day except Sunday, The Lord’s

Day. Angela was careful not to wager more than ten per cent of her

previous day’s profits. One month later, she laughed with confi-

dence. Spider had turned her $400 to $183,000.

As with any overnight successful venture, unforeseen bureau-

cracies tapped on happy shoulders like prey, looking for a meal:

taxes, financial planning, bookkeeping, creating trusts and com-

panies; her problems grew exponentially. Accountants rang while

unanswered emails swamped her in box. She’d worry about that

later. She wished she had friends to share her miraculous story. Dur-

ing her mountainous success, she dropped 15 pounds and her luxury

apartment looked like a shelter for the homeless. The scent of fat in

old dishwater, whiffs of decomposed organic matter in five full gar-

bage bags lined the entryway, and cigarette smoke intermingled with

a sour body odor. Dark brown holes from fallen cigarettes scared the

walnut desktop.

Warm and humid air wrapped around soft booms of thunder

and occasional lightening. Race 7 was about to start. She turned on

the television just as the horses were approaching the barrier when a


massive CRACK shook the apartment. The television, computer, and

lights died. Oh shit. Her bet was already in, but she needed to see

the win and feel the excitement. Angela waited for the electricity to

come on while anxiously looking at a black screen. Twenty minutes

later, the television blared, the microwave tinged back to life, and

the refrigerator belched, but the computer had flat lined. She flicked

buttons and checked cables--nothing. Panic reared its ugly head. She

looked at her watch, twenty minutes to five.

She drove down to the mall and was manhandling a new

Toshiba laptop into the passenger seat of her car twenty minutes

later. She hooked it up and yelped; she’d won $2,800 on the race.

Since she never bet on Sundays, she used the next day to download

personal files, updates, back-up disks, and programs. Spider winked

at her with new, deck colors.

Monday started at 11:00, after a few hours of play. A daunting

problem was growing. She couldn’t get above 10 % with her new

laptop. With over $800,000 in her bank account, she didn’t worry

about a bit of loose change to test her statistics on the horses. The

first race was a disaster; the second ditto, damn bad, and not work-

ing. There must be another percentage I can work out on the new laptop.

Four days and nights later she thought she found the solution,

but she paid dearly for her research. Fever, joint aches, redder eyes,

spreading rashes, hair loss, and shakes, combined with weight loss,

left her looking and feeling like an addict two days without a fix. She

knew she needed medical attention and after making an appoint-

ment, drove to Dr. Hallstead’s office. He prodded and poked, ham-

mered her knees, took her blood pressure, got samples of her rash,


and urine plus a couple of vials of blood.

“Angela, you look exhausted. Go home and eat a good meal

and sleep. Then exercise, maybe a walk?”

The next morning she received a phone call from the doctor’s

office. She sat across from Hallstead.

He took off his glasses and put them on the desk. “Angela, you

have lupus.”

Her hands gripped the sides of the seat. “What’s that?”

“Your immune system has crashed. You need one month of

bed rest, medication, a specific diet and light exercise when you feel

up to it.”

“Is there a cure to this lupus disease ?”

“No.”

She remembered him talking, leaning towards her with com-

passion. Words like control, diet, rest and quality of life.

She walked through her door and plopped in front of the com-

puter. Googling lupus, her head spun into a nightmare. She needed

her mother. She reached over, grabbed the phone and dialed.

“Mom, I’ve got lupus disease. Dr. Hallstead just told me.”

“I’ll catch the next flight out. Don’t worry about picking me up

at the airport. I’ll taxi it.”

Angela gaped at her bedroom. Dirty pillowcases percolated

a vinegar vapor. Clothes carpeted the floor. She dragged herself up

and started a cleaning process which she would never forget. Her

mother could be here in three hours if she caught the commuter

flight from San Francisco.

Four hours later, her mother banged on the door. Angela


opened it to a small, dumpy woman with two suitcases. She

wrapped her arms around Angela and gave her a hug, then pushed

her daughter away.

“Why haven’t you called for the past year? You never answer

my calls! What has happened to you?” Her mother rubbed her el-

bows, deep lines running south above her large nose.

“All in good time, Mother.”

Her anger turned to concern, and her eyes leaked tears. “I’ve

got plenty of that, darling.”

Dinner at Rios’s invited intimate and private conversation. Her

mother spoke of Lupus.

“Your Aunt Thelma died 15 years ago with from lupus compli-

cations.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Diners turned heads, recoiling in

disapproval at the outburst. Soft whispers mingled with clanking

utensils on china.

Her mother gazed at her pumpkin soup. “Sometimes igno-

rance is bliss. I don’t have it. There’s nothing you can do, so why put

the cart before the horse? It only creates angst.”

When they arrived home, Angela, in a state of shock, threw her

laptop in the bin. Later, her mother plucked it out, put it in a pillow-

case and laid it on Angela’s desk.

For one month Angela and her mother spent most of their time

replacing hot packs on Angela’s aching joints and muscles. Depres-

sion plunged her down to depths she’d never known. First denial,

then anger and at the end she bargained with God. She would stop

betting and give her money to the poor. Please cure me!


Months later, after her mother flew home, she finally accepted

a future of having a disease without a cure, a life of an invalid, drug

dependent.

Part of her therapy was relaxation to relieve stress. She used

visualization, but instead of a cloudy version of what she wanted to

become like a healthy, happy soul, it was Spider Solitaire playing in

her head. During meditation, racing horses interrupted her seren-

ity. She stopped praying, and several times emptied the pillowcase.

She was tempted, but tenderly placed it back inside, the pillowcase a

symbol, a shroud to encase her addiction.

Three weeks later the symptoms softened. The rash started to

fade, the pain in her muscles lessened. A ray of hope?

She slid in the chair in front of Dr. Hallstead’s desk, and

wriggled when the doctor grinned at her. “You are making progress.

Just do whatever you are doing, continue the medication and you

might, and let me add might, get your normal life back.

Angela drove home from the doctors with hope. Might live

my normal life? She looked at the pillowcase and emptied it. Just one

game. She looked at her watch. Race 7 started in 45 minutes.


Foragerby Tanya Isch Caylor

Stopping at the grocery store after work, before he even cuts

the engine, Randy can already see himself devouring an entire box of

Fiber One chocolate fudge brownies, shedding wrappers as he goes.

He wouldn’t even feel guilty about it. He’s run the numbers;

he’d be no worse off than if he’d grabbed that beefsteak of a brownie

at Starbucks. Way more fiber. Less fat. Tackier, yes. But the main

thing is, he loves that plundering sensation that comes with finish-

ing off The Whole Darn Thing. Better to do this than ravage a bag of

Doritos, right?

Still . . . he hesitates before he gets out of the car. It doesn’t feel

right somehow. An alignment issue. He works in small bits, tiny uni-

verses. Symmetry matters. It’s huge. His hunger is real. But it exists

only within the boundaries of a larger reality.

Randy’s not a plunderer. He’s an explorer. And so, as he opens

his door, he draws a triangle on a chalkboard in his mind.

Inside this triangle is all the food in the supermarket. He

draws a line down the middle of the big triangle, dividing it into two

smaller ones, each containing half the food in the supermarket.

With each step, he draws another line. And with each new

line, two smaller triangles pop into existence, reducing the size of the

universe in which he can hunt for his snack.

He could keep going forever, drawing more lines and making


more triangles as he takes smaller and smaller steps in the potential-

ly infinite space between the parking lot and the door to the super-

market.

But he doesn’t, because he’s hungry. He really wants that

snack. Somewhere inside the big triangle that contains all the food in

the supermarket is a tiny triangle that contains only fruit. Fresh fruit.

The produce department is where he will find his snack.

As he fingers apples and pears and bananas, Randy decides

that every line he mustn’t cross—like the fence erected in his mind

to keep himself away from the snack bars and the snack bars away

from him—is not a barrier but merely a line subdividing another

triangle.

A chance to explore a smaller universe he might not have no-

ticed otherwise. And then he picks up a plastic clamshell container of

strawberries so perfect he could eat The Whole Darn Thing.

So he does. Right there in the parking lot, juice dribbling down

his chin.


Truth and Skitsnack in a Dark Place

by Gary Cuba

It was not easy to obtain an interview with Stig Snurksson, the

reclusive Professor of Mathematics whose work on number theory

had brought modern civilization to its knees. Over the last few years,

many had tried to make contact—and all had failed. I alone succeed-

ed. I now wish that I hadn’t.

At the time of my meeting with him, in the dead of winter,

Professor Snurksson was ensconced in a protected enclave north of

Boden, Sweden. His home location had shifted often, ever since he’d

achieved notoriety for his tiny, three-page paper published in an

obscure mathematics journal five years ago.

A small contingent of Government troops guarded him around

the clock. That was for his own protection—since there were many in

the world who would have loved nothing better than to see the aging

don strung up from the nearest tree in a bitter act of vengeance for

what the man had wreaked upon them. But Sweden, like any civi-

lized country, endeavors to protect its own. That, and the peripatetic

nature of Snurksson’s recent life, had successfully kept him one step

ahead of the crazies.

Moreover, the protective wings of his daughter, Sonja, capped


his shield. Without her sponsorship, my aspirations of making con-

tact with the man would surely have come to naught.

I met her soon after I pulled into Snurksson’s remote com-

pound. It was only mid-afternoon, but it might as well have been

midnight. The compound and its immediate environs were starkly

illuminated by overhead sodium arc lights; a bloated red sun barely

peeped above the horizon for a brief hour or so at this time of year,

at this latitude. The guards at the entrance gave me a perfunctory

search, and, following that, I moved my rental car into a parking

spot near the main residence. Sonja appeared out of nowhere and

dutifully plugged a cable hanging from a metal post into the engine

block heater connection in the front end of my vehicle. I knew this to

be a ubiquitous and necessary practice here in the wintertime.

“A bit chilly,” I said with a vaporous huff as I exited the car. I

noted the oddly pitched—and somehow ominous—crunching sound

of the snow as I stepped down on it. It wasn’t at all slippery; as a

science journalist, I knew the reason was that the contact pressure of

my boots couldn’t create a slick surface liquid phase in this extreme

cold. “Sonja Snurksson, I presume?”

The rosy-cheeked woman smiled and chuckled. “We have

a little cold snap here lately, yes?” She reached out and clasped

my hand, two mittened appendages around my outstretched one.

“Välkommen! Come inside for some hot coffee, Mr. Timothy Jaffee.

Some real coffee, after your long drive.”

We entered the main residence, painted in the bright yellow,

red and blue primary colors that I’d become accustomed to since

arriving in this country. A cheerful enough introduction for any


first-time visitor to Sweden, and it made the trip seem worthwhile on

its face, even after such a long voyage to get here. My drab passage

from the States had been by oceangoing liner; the airlines had not

yet recertified their software upgrades—and it’d probably be another

year at least until that could be achieved. Yet another reason why

Professor Snurksson was held in such disdain by so many people.

We shucked our icy boots and overcoats in the foyer. I fol-

lowed Sonja into the living room, where she bade me to sit in a plush

leather-upholstered couch. By the time I’d retrieved my tape recorder

and notepad from my briefcase, she was back wielding two steaming

cups.

I already knew what I was in for. Coffee made in the Swedish

way has long been touted to be able to grow hair on billiard balls. It’s

great stuff.

I took a sip while she sat down next to me. “First of all, thank

you for giving me the opportunity to meet with your father. I know

I shouldn’t ask this, Sonja, but . . . why me? No one else has success-

fully broken through the barrier in the last few years.”

She laughed, removed her colorful woolen cap and ruffled her

short, shag-cut blonde hair. “True. We have no patience for cowboy

science journalists, Mr. Jaffee. But I’ve read some of your articles,

and they reveal you to be an honest, intelligent man. One who isn’t

chasing the popular Zeitgeist. A man who wants to get to the heart of

things, yes? And who deals fairly with the people he interviews.”

“I’m honored by your assessment of me. But to be fair, I am a

cowboy, of sorts. I grew up on a ranch in Oklahoma, matter of fact.

Yeah, okay, I was educated at Cornell, with a minor in mathematics.


But even so, I have a hard time relating to your father’s theoretical

work. It’s not easy to climb onto without getting bucked off again.”

“Understanding his work has never been easy, not for anyone.

It’s always been the bane of the mathematician who lives at the edge

of his craft.”

“Understanding is one thing, belief is quite another,” I said.

“Tell me: Do you comprehend his work?”

“Only enough to see that it is true. And truth, no matter what

its repercussions, must eventually win forth. The man who speaks

the truth must be honored. I hope you will come to see that, Mr.

Jaffee. And reproduce it, in your own fashion.”

The man, this incredible man, was obviously afflicted by some

sort of sociopathic disorder. His daughter had announced me at the

open door to his study, then closed it behind me. Snurksson did not

acknowledge my presence, nor did he even look up from his scrib-

blings.

I spoke his name, and he didn’t react. I asked him what he

was working on, and he didn’t react. I invoked the names of several

gods of mathematics—Euler, Gauss, Poincaré, Hilbert—and he didn’t

react. Then I pulled the ghosts of Russell, Godel and Quine out of my

pocket.

“I always speak the truth, Professor Snurksson. Yet, my previ-

ous statement is false.”

Snurksson lowered his pencil and looked up at me. “That is

not a permissible thing to say.”


Bingo!

“Professor, that is just the start of it. What is ‘not permissible’ is

the stuff whereof I thrive.”

“Skitsnack . . . bullshit.”

I held up one finger in my right hand, and made a circle in my

left. “Bullshit can cut both ways. What first led you to believe that a

natural counting number could exist between zero and one, as you

posited in your paper?”

Snurksson swept his uncut gray locks away from his forehead

and paused for a long moment before answering me. “Because it is

so ridiculous that it cannot be true. And therefore, it must be true.

Leave me alone now. I have work to do.”

With that, Snurksson returned to his scribbling. I left the room,

feeling discouraged. Sonja met me just outside the door of his study.

“It didn’t go well, I presume,” she said.

“The man is mad.”

“No, no. He is merely fixated on his work today. We’ll try

again tomorrow. You will spend the night here, yes? Please. It’s

important that you come to understand him. For the sake of your

readers.”

I closed my eyes and felt a long sigh escape from my lungs.

“Of course. These things can take time and effort, I do realize that.

Thank you.”

Sonja squeezed my arm and grunted, then uttered some Swed-

ish phrase that I didn’t understand—but by its gentle tone took to be

encouraging. I went to the foyer and donned my outdoor garb again,

then lugged my bags in from the car.


“Historical reasons,” Snurksson said. “An obvious modal

disconnect. A personal proclivity from my youth. Because the sky is

blue. Whichever you prefer.”

Invigorated by Sonja’s coffee that morning, I’d asked her father

what had prompted his interest in this peculiar—or as I thought at

the time, insane—aspect of number theory.

“The ancient Babylonians recorded certain . . . difficulties aris-

ing from their mathematical speculations,” he continued. “As did

the later Greeks. Innocent manipulations of the existing counting

numbers tended to yield irrational results, which were a grievance to

them—indeed, something bordering on anathema to those peoples.

They didn’t know how to deal with that. Nor has any man since

then, with the possible exception of your fellow American, Fuller.

He had a clue toward solving it with his unitary tetrahedronal-based

system of geometry. But it’s always been a pesky problem.”

“Truth be told, I too once had problems with the concept,

Professor,” I said. “But I got over them. Really, tell me why you think

any modern person can lose sleep over the fact that the square root

of two is irrational, non-repeating—or that pi is also transcendental?”

Snurksson snorted. “I did, as a small boy. I lost a lot of sleep

over it, in fact. I wanted to fix the problem. And I did. I finally did!”

He leaned back and laughed at the ceiling, a gut-roaring, belly-

clenching laugh.

“But did you ever give thought to the ramifications of your

novel methods of numeric renormalization? The fact that a few


others would take it so far? For only one example, what was your

reaction when Adams at Cal Tech realized that it could be used to

quickly find the prime factors of any arbitrarily large number—

thereby rendering modern digital encryption protocols immediately

obsolete?”

“Not my concern,” Snurksson said, turning suddenly serious.

“We all build things using others’ sticks. It doesn’t interest me what

others do with mine. I’m only interested in what new sticks I may

deposit in future. I . . . I don’t believe I wish to talk with you any

more today.”

Snurksson buried his head into his notepad and went back to

his furious scribbling. I left his office.

“Another fabulous dinner, Sonja. I’m stuffed again! Why does

your father not join us at the table?”

“Oh, don’t be overly concerned about that. It has nothing to do

with your presence. He always eats alone, has done so for years,” she

said. She handed me another washed plate to dry off and place in the

overhead kitchen cabinet.

“A very eccentric man, in so many ways.”

“He was not always so . . . internalized, Mr. Jaffee. Although, he

has always needed someone to help him manage the basic essentials

of life. He couldn’t possibly survive on his own. Certainly not these

days.”

“Call me Tim, please. It must be hard on you sometimes, to

have to carry this lonely burden.”


Sonja paused, her hands still immersed in the dishwater in the

sink. She smiled and looked at me with her pale green eyes. “I’ve

done it since I was sixteen years old, Tim. Ever since my mother

died. It’s always seemed like a normal, natural occupation to me.”

“And yet, you are so very articulate, so intelligent for someone

who never had a chance to get any higher education. How can that

be?”

“Anyone may read and study on their own. I had plenty of

time to do that, during the long hours when my father was en-

grossed in his work. Books have always been my best friends.”

“He must have fathered you late in life,” I said. “If my facts are

correct, Stig is seventy-five years old. And you look only to be, what,

in your mid-twenties?”

She laughed. “I assume that these are all purely journalistic

questions you’re peppering me with, yes? Even so, you’re skating on

thin ice, Mister Jaffe! Your estimates are slightly off, but your point

is well-founded. He was not what I believe you Americans call a

‘spring chicken’ when I was born. In fact, I’ve often wondered how

he became diverted from his work long enough to even think of

procreation, or the act that engenders it. It’s such a mundane thing,

after all. Not something he would ever have dwelt much upon, in my

opinion.” Her laughter ascended in pitch and rose to the ceiling.

“I apologize for the impertinence of my questions—but not

for making you laugh. If you must know, you are coming off as the

heroine in my story, so far.”

“The one that the cowboy kisses and then waves goodbye to at

the end, as he rides off alone into the sunset?” she said, still chuck-


ling.

I smiled and shrugged. “Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to

be any kind of proper sunset here to ride off into. Not in this cold,

dark place. Nevertheless, if you give me another taste of that won-

derful after-dinner schnapps you treated me to last night, I may tell

you more of my imaginary tale.”

She dried her hands, grabbed a bottle and two small snifters

from another cabinet, and we settled down in front of the living

room’s crackling fireplace for the evening. I did not miss the lack of

satellite television there—yet another result of Snurksson’s infernal

paper.

“I don’t have him, Sonja. It’s been a whole week now, and I

haven’t got him pinned down yet. I don’t know who the true Stig

Snurksson is.”

Sonja lifted her head drowsily from the pillow next to mine.

She turned over on her side and stared at me. Her sleepy green eyes

sparkled in the dim nightlight in the room. They threatened to break

my concentration and send it back to the night before. Or was it the

day before? Every day was indistinguishable from night in this ac-

cursed hyperborean place. The lack of any decent, natural sunshine

was screwing with my mind. I felt like I was slowly becoming a

ghost.

“He is my father,” she said. “Find his humanity, as I know it.”

“The man is an enigma. Closed. Locked up. And I don’t have

the key,” I murmured, only half-awake.


Sonja raised up on the bed and leaned over me, kneading the

muscles of my chest and shoulders. “Try again, Timothy. Try again.”

The crack of a rifle shot sounded outside the window. More

sharp reports followed. I lurched off the bed, pulled my pants on

and ran barefooted toward the Professor’s study. I sensed Sonja close

behind me.

Snurksson was there, lost in his papers at this early hour. Just

as I entered the study, a thick-bearded man in winter-white fatigues

burst through the French doors at the rear of the room in a shower

of glass shards. He fell and rolled across the floor. I raced toward the

Professor.

The assassin, from his prone position, lifted an automatic

firearm and sent a tightly aimed burst of bullets toward Snurksson.

The Professor had not even reacted to the commotion, so absorbed

he was in his inner world. Some of the projectiles struck true.

A second later, a Swedish trooper appeared at the back en-

trance and sent several rounds into the intruder. Too late, too late, too

late!

I reached Snurksson as his body slumped from his chair to the

floor. I knelt and cradled him there. Sonja joined me, yelling high-

pitched Swedish exclamations.

“I didn’t have you yet!” I said, tears brimming in my eyes.

“Damn you, you didn’t give me a chance, Snurksson. You bastard!

Don’t you dare die on me . . . .”

Snurksson could only gaze up at me with unbelieving eyes.

Then dark blood gurgled from his mouth, his body gave out a single


huge spasm, and he was gone.

I watched as soldiers loaded Stig Surksson’s body into the rear

of a gray government van, to be driven off to the hospital in Boden

where he could be pronounced officially dead. I use the plural here,

but in my confused state I was no longer sure I had the ability to

count accurately. It may have been two soldiers, or only one—or

something in between.

I helped Sonja into the vehicle to accompany her father. She

didn’t bid me farewell—nor did I expect her to, not under the dis-

tressing circumstances at hand.

The weak sun had not yet broken the horizon for its own

pathetically sterile hello-and-goodbye—and wouldn’t for several

more hours. I didn’t kiss Sonja. I didn’t wave as the van drove away

solemnly into the darkness. Our story did not play out quite as I’d

imagined it. I stood alone under the artificial lighting of the com-

pound, considering all the things that didn’t happen, the things

that couldn’t have happened, the things that wouldn’t happen. To a

ghost, nothing can become real, nothing can ever transpire.

I left the nearly deserted compound soon thereafter, and after a

thousand miles of treacherous winter road travel arrived in Malmö,

at Sweden’s southern tip, where I booked passage for my trip home

on the next available ship. Thankfully, the sun deigned to provide

a more reasonable semblance of daytime there. I blessed the incre-

mental change in latitude that let me regain some sense of positive,

personal corporeality.


I don’t know what had possessed me to gather up Snurksson’s

last blood-spattered writings from his desk, but I’m glad I did. Civi-

lization did not deserve another blow like the one he had already

delivered to it. His newest work would have been even worse, from

what little I could glean from it.

But we have nothing to fear, at least for the present—not until

someone else lays down the next stick. I can say with direct knowl-

edge that the North Atlantic Ocean provides the final resting place

for the last of Stig Snurksson’s mathematical notions.

As to the fate of other papers, derivative ones which may ema-

nate from someone else’s pencil in the future, I can’t say. It’s difficult

to put the genie back into his bottle, once he is let out. But that will

become someone else’s problem.


Note

This story does not take place in the universe as we know it, but in a reasonably close parallel one. The prisoner’s dilemma is the most famous example from the realm of mathematics known as game theory. As such, Remy Martin, the game theorist who finds himself at the very center of it, would probably realize that this is far too convenient, and that he must therefore be a char-acter in a novel, subsequently facing an existential crisis. He’s very clever and would figure it out. For the sake of spinning a good yarn, we just have to pretend that the game theorists of this world never used the specific example of the prisoner’s dilemma to illustrate this type of conflict. While this pushes the entire tale into the realm of the surreal, it beats the alternative in which the protagonist would simply stop performing for our amusement and begin plotting to escape from the book.

Without further ado, Imaginaire proudly presents Part 2 of Practical Applications of Game Theory in serialized format. Tune into Issue #4 for Chapters 7–9. You can also download the en-tire book on Andy Breslin’s web site.


Chapter 4Statistical Anomalies

Roulette is a sucker’s bet. Any good mathematician would tell

you that, if you could drag him away from the blackjack table, which

would be no mean trick. Intimate with the laws of probability and

exactly when, where, and how those laws can be broken or at least

advantageously bent and twisted, mathematicians abjure the spin-

ning wheel, the rotational action of which creates invisible waves,

irresistibly drawing the mathematically challenged through some as

yet poorly explored physical force. The house enjoys a bigger edge

at the roulette table than anywhere else in the casino, 5.26%. You

are definitely going to lose in the long run. Chances are pretty good

you’re going to lose in the short run too. Many a feckless amateur

mathematician has devised complex, flawed schemes to win, discov-

ering errors only after expensive experimental analysis.

In contrast, a reasonable degree of mathematical proficiency

can earn a blackjack player a tidy profit. The difficult part is making

rigorously applied logic look like dumb luck. Card counters make

small bets until the deck favors the players, then increase their wager

to exploit a fleeting advantage. It’s a simple and effective system, but

the methodical bet modulation is a dead giveaway. Remy had picked

up a few hundred the previous evening, exiting just before he’d won

enough to draw attention to himself. He was back again tonight, but


wary of the scrutiny he might attract spending another night at the

blackjack table, making bets in a pattern that practically sent a tele-

gram to the pit boss that he was a card counter, he decided to explore

the rest of the casino. Like a sentry, sensitive to a cracking twig or

a whiff of odor on the breeze, he was on edge, primed and alert for

statistical anomalies.

As a good mathematician, Remy normally spurned the roulette

table, dismissed it disdainfully and looked upon its enthusiasts with

contemptuous pity. But unlike the mentally constructed universe of

idealized mathematics, the real world allows for a certain probability

that the machines aren’t working properly.

Surfaces chip. Wood decays. Metal oxidizes. Particles of dust

and moisture collect and accumulate inside and on the surface of

roulette wheels. It’s rare but not so rare that it can be excluded from

probabilistic consideration. Throughout the use of the machine there

is a small but growing chance that it will begin to exhibit results un-

likely to be produced by an unbiased random number generator.

Remy settled at the craps table, but only because its position

afforded an excellent vista to observe the three nearby roulette tables.

Craps offered almost even odds, the best game in the casino outside

of blackjack. He expected to lose, but he expected to lose slowly, and

while he was losing slowly he was gathering information. He viewed

the small wagers he placed, always betting with the shooter and

declining the dice himself, as rent paid to occupy the valuable real

estate.

“Cocktails?” invited an attractive blonde waitress about his

age, mid thirties or thereabouts. The craps players barraged her


with orders, Remy requesting a glass of red wine, stressing that he’d

prefer a genuine Bordeaux, meaning no offense to the great state of

California.

He did his best to appear casually interested in the craps game

on which he repeatedly placed the same small bet, as he strained

to hear the wheelmen announce the results at the nearby roulette

tables, followed by the cheers and groans of the gamblers assembled

around them. The waitress returned with his wine, a nice Chateau

des Graviers. Remy tipped her and continued to analyze the roulette

tables while making small bets at craps. He sipped his drink, listened

very carefully, and calculated.

After the roulette wheels had gone through about fifty spins

apiece, Remy had a sufficient pool of data to analyze. Two of the

wheels had some minor spikes, a few numbers represented more

than chance would have it, given its druthers. But as further spins

were executed, these submissively obeyed the laws of probability

and flattened out. He stopped paying attention and focused on the

third wheel, which did not behave. As it was spun more and more,

the anomalously skewed representation of numbers persisted. It

wasn’t glaring. It wasn’t blatant. It was very subtle. But it was there.

While 19 and 12 seemed to be coming up slightly more fre-

quently than was to be expected, 8 was clearly the most biased num-

ber. In the world of idealized mathematics, an eight showing up on a

roulette wheel six times in 100 spins is a perfectly normal statistical

anomaly, and is mathematically independent of the probability that

it will show in future spins. These anomalies are bound to happen.

If you spin the wheel enough, eventually you’ll get a hundred eights


in a row, though you’d have to spin it many googols of times before

that would be statistically likely. By then the casino, along with the

universe to which it is attached, would have ceased to exist as all

matter was drawn by the inexorable pull of gravity back to the center

in a cataclysmic “big crunch” or, alternately, reached a state of maxi-

mum entropy and heat death. Either way, all bets would long since

have been declared off. Six eights in a hundred spins is compara-

tively small statistical potatoes, but it’s still moderately persuasive

evidence of an unbalanced wheel.

These anomalies are scarce and treasured commodities. Casi-

nos are run by highly motivated professionals, always on the alert

for opportunities such as these in which clever number-crunchers

might turn the laws of probability against them. Biased wheels rarely

remain in operation long. Subtlety is the key to exploiting the infre-

quent occasions when the fates smile and present opportunities, little

islands of positive odds in a vast boiling sea of losses. When you find

a goose laying golden eggs, it’s best to be content with a steady sup-

ply of small ones. Never try to squeeze out the jumbos.

He excused himself from the craps table, where he’d man-

aged to come out ten dollars ahead, which was in no way surprising,

though he knew with absolute mathematical certainty that he would

lose this back and everything else if he kept playing long enough.

Having tipped both the stickman and the waitress five dollars each,

he thus came out dead even, not counting one glass of fine red wine,

a gift from the gods of chance.

He sauntered to the roulette table with the faulty wheel and

put a twenty-dollar chip on the 8. The wheel came up 14. Twenty


bucks gone. He repeated his bet. It came up 23. Another twenty

gone, but he was mathematically assured of positive odds, and had

calculated a 90% chance that he’d hit the eight before his funds ran

out if he bet twenty bucks each time. If he bet much more than that,

he risked being wiped out before he could successfully exploit this

gift of fortune. Any less and he’d be wasting it. He dropped 180

more dollars, twenty at a time, before 8 showed up. The 8 paid 35 to

one, and he collected $700 in chips.

“Well, this must be my lucky day,” Remy said, as he scooped

up his hard won booty, tipping the wheel attendant a five dollar

chip. “Guess I better quit while I’m ahead before the luck runs out.”

He believed in no such thing, of course, but was only doing

his best impression of a typical gambler with nothing but the most

nebulous, imprecise understanding of probability, plagued with su-

perstitions about “luck,” “streaks,” and assorted aleatory voodoo. He

was quite certain that if he continued to play, he would win again.

He didn’t win because of luck, which never runs out for the simple

reason that it doesn’t exist in the first place. He won because the

roulette wheel was broken, and the likelihood that it would sponta-

neously repair itself was inconceivably close (though not quite equal)

to zero. But someone would notice something soon, the probability

of that was very high, and he wanted to be gone and forgotten when

that happened. Not that he’d broken any laws or rules, but if he were

identified as someone who knows what to look out for, the manage-

ment would make sure to look out for him.

It wasn’t easy, but he tore himself away, lest he be left with a

few golden eggs and one dead goose. He cashed in his chips, briefly


visited the lavatory where he tucked the large bills discreetly in his

shoe, then exited, planning to hit another gambling venue where his

face had not grown familiar at the blackjack tables. Encouraged by

his success in turning the almost unbeatable game of roulette to his

advantage, not through sheer dumb luck but methodical statistical

analysis, Remy was feeling cocky and careless, which is inevitably

when fate decides to pull rugs out from beneath people. Fate, ever

sadistic, usually waits until they’re carrying something fragile, or, as

in the present case, a big wad of cash. He had the bug now, and he

cut through a side alley to get to the next casino as quickly as pos-

sible.

He found the shadowy side street strewn with garbage, cre-

ative local residents having discovered that it made for a serviceable

dump, saving them the trouble and expense of hiring waste manage-

ment professionals to haul their junk away. As he was navigating the

detritus, he heard a voice behind him.

“Don’t turn around or I’ll blow your head off.”

Remy reluctantly retracted his earlier assertion that this was

his lucky day.


Chapter 5Time

Every prisoner at Longacre State Penitentiary was, soon after

his arrival, formally introduced to Warden Nelson Riems, universally

known among the institution’s incarcerated population as “Father

Time.”

Although nearly a decade past standard retirement age, the

warden had no intention of stepping down before time itself claimed

him. Always fair and blonde, his hair had gone stark white years

ago. He let it grow long and kept it pulled back into a pony tail that

looked like an albino snake hanging off the back of his head. Father

Time’s beard did not comprise long, flowing, snowy whiskers tum-

bling to the floor. It was short and neatly trimmed, but was as white

as a bleached skull.

Remy had seen a portrait of his keeper back in R and D. That’s

receiving and departure, not research and development, though the

warden, a sociologist by training, was a biologist at heart, devoted to

the laboratory experiment. Controlled settings and easily manipu-

lated variables were freely at his disposal. Longacre was his lab, the

Corrections Officers his graduate students. And he had about 2,000

lab rats on which to test his theories.

Harry Bigger, Captain of the guard, escorted Remy to the

warden’s office. The Captain was a huge, chiseled black man, with a


football player’s body, a movie star’s chin, and a perfect set of teeth,

which rarely made an appearance as he was almost never seen to

smile. The top guard was widely referred to as “Uncle Tom” by

the black inmates, an obvious and uncreative racist epithet by the

Aryans, and something unflattering and untranslatable in Spanish

by the Hispanics, but only behind his back. To his face the widely

despised and even more widely feared head C.O. was almost always

addressed as “Captain Bigger, sir.”

“Did the warden finish his chess game yet?” Bigger asked a

newjack—prison parlance for a novice corrections officer. This one

was a tall and gangly white guy with a distractingly prominent

Adam’s apple. He had two day’s growth of coarse stubble and hair

a bit longer and more unkempt than the administration would have

preferred, but they had to settle for what they could get. Anyone

with enough sense and discipline to shave could probably get a bet-

ter job.

“Yeah, that old con won,” replied the hirsute neophyte, whom

the inmates had already dubbed “Shaggy.”

Bigger glared down at Shaggy. A physiognomatic athlete, the

captain managed to frown, scowl, and smirk all at the same time.

“That old con is Solomon, and he’s not like most of the dirtbags in

here. In the last 25 years, he hasn’t gotten so much as a ticket. Don’t

turn your back on most of these guys, because they can and will cut

your throat if you give them half a chance, but treat Solomon with a

little respect, okay? Probably the one con in here who deserves it.”

“Sorry, Captain.”

“Besides, he always wins. I didn’t ask you who won, did I?”


“No, sir.”

“I already know who won. Warden’s played Solomon one

game just about every afternoon for getting on twenty years now,

and he hasn’t won yet. If it’s over, take this guy in to see the boss.”

“Your biggest problem was your black bishop, sir,” Solomon

explained, as he moved the pieces from the checkmate position

backwards through the final moves, the brief endgame, then to the

midgame and the opening, temporarily reversing time. Almost as

old as the warden, Solomon was the only person who had been at

Longacre longer. The grizzled convict hadn’t seen the outside in

nearly forty years. An imposing figure for a senior citizen, his brown

skin was pulled taut over solid muscles, which he kept toned by

hitting the piles a few days a week. Though his real name was on

record somewhere in the massive file cabinet looming over the small

chess table, nobody, not the inmates, not the guards, not even Father

Time himself, who called every other prisoner by his number, ever

called Solomon anything else.

Father Time, still deeply enmeshed in the post-mortem analy-

sis of his game, didn’t give the briefest word or gesture to acknowl-

edge the prisoner and the CO standing in the doorway. Remy

correctly inferred that he was to do his most earnest impersonation

of a statue just inside the door until the warden addressed him. He

didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget. He resisted the urge to scratch his

itchy crotch.


“You see how his freedom of movement was impeded by the

placement of your own pawns and pieces?” the master explained.

“That bishop was trapped by his allied forces, while mine had full

mobility. Everything else was well positioned but the absence of that

firepower when it was needed on the queenside made all the dif-

ference. When your weakened defense started to crumble, I gained

space and momentum. After that it was just a matter of time.”

“Hmmm,” the warden said, looking at the board from differ-

ent angles, cocking his head this way and that, finally nodding and

grinning sourly. “Damned black bishop.” He scratched at his white

beard as he continued to stare at the board on which things now

made so much sense. “Of course. It’s all so clear now, but I can’t turn

back the clock.”

“No, sir, I guess not, sir.”

He extended his hand and Solomon took it, clasped the war-

den’s palm in a firm grip, and they shook. “Good game,” Solomon

said.

The warden laughed, then gave Solomon a friendly punch on

the shoulder. “I never had a chance. But it’s starting to take you just a

little longer to beat me. Thanks for the lesson, Solomon.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Solomon stood up and walked out of the room. He barely

looked at Remy as he passed him, briefly nodding in a manner that

was almost amiable, a closer approach than he’d thus far seen from

any of his fellow felons.

The warden put the set into the starting position with slow and

deliberate attention to minute detail, each piece in the absolute center


of its square, all four knights’ heads pointing directly forward. He set

the chess clock up against one side of the board, exactly equidistant

from either side. This ritual was performed in silence, but for the

ticking of several other clocks in the room. Father Time surveyed the

assembled black and white armies, adjusted a few of the soldiers just

a hair and then nodded in satisfaction before strolling over to take a

seat in a big plush red chair behind a massive oak desk.

“Come,” the warden said, looking down at his notes. Remy ap-

proached and stood at attention. Perched majestically on the end of

the desk was a large, antique hourglass, beautifully decorated with

ornate silver filigree. The warden flipped this over and the sand be-

gan to flow. Remy made a few cursory calculations, estimating that it

would take about ten or fifteen minutes to run to the bottom.

The warden had been overseeing Longacre for longer than

the average prisoner behind its walls had been alive, whether you

go mean or median. These were 32.9 and 31.4 years, respectively.

Warden Riems had been at the helm for 34 years. None of the five

wardens who preceded him had lasted more than six. Riems was

a fixture. He was certain posterity would cast him as the J Edgar

Hoover of Longacre State Penitentiary. The man who defined the

institution.

He sat back imperiously in his plush red throne. Behind Remy,

just to the left of the door, a bulky bookshelf bulged with books.

Atlases. Dictionaries. Encyclopedia. And volume after volume on

criminology, penology, and anything else addressing philosophical

and practical matters concerning the caging of human beings. The

room smelled of pine scent, a refreshing olfactory diversion from the


rest of the prison’s distinctive musky, musty stench.

“547298,” the warden said, looking down at his notes.

Remy shifted uncomfortably. “Yes sir.”

“Good to see you’ve accepted your new identity.” He looked

up and met Remy’s eyes for the first time. “Some of the correc-

tions officers may call you by your old name,” he glanced down at

his notes, then pronounced the name with undisguised distaste, “

‘Martin.’ But I’m old fashioned. I believe that in order to rebuild the

delinquent personality, one must start from scratch. Tabula rasa.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am Warden Riems,” he said, the introduction mere formality

as Remy knew perfectly well who the old man was. “You have been

convicted and sentenced to four years under my expert supervision,

547298.” He smiled slightly.

Remy’s lips curved upward a scintilla. An inmate must quickly

master the delicate art of prison smiling and other subtle but deathly

important social conventions. He’d already learned not to smile at

any of the guards, unless they smiled first, and not to smile at an-

other prisoner, whether he smiled first or not. To the latter, the ideal

countenance to cultivate was a specialized species of pseudo-sneer,

a face that said, “fuck with me and I’ll fuck with you harder,” but

which did not offer a direct threat. You don’t stare a guy down, but

you don’t look away. You meet his eyes and nod in an assertive but

not provocative way. It’s a very thin line, a razor’s edge along which

prisoners must constantly tiptoe, a line between inviting exploita-

tion and looking for trouble, and if they do not exercise great care in

walking that thin line, they will soon learn how disturbingly ap-


propriate the analogy of the razor is. But when the warden smiles

at you, you smile back, because here is a man who, more than the

biggest, meanest, most vicious mass murderer doing life without the

possibility of parole, could, on the slightest of whims, with neither

effort nor fear of reprisals, make your life a living hell.

“I make it a point to greet all our new arrivals,” the warden

said. “Let them know what is expected of them. And make sure they

know who is in charge here at Longacre.”

“I’ve no misunderstandings on that point, sir,” Remy said, his

voice a study in practiced obsequiousness.

“Well, you are half the way to rehabilitation. You’d be sur-

prised how many miss this rather simple concept. Wouldn’t you

agree, Captain Bigger?”

Remy swiveled around to see that the captain of the guard had

returned, replacing Shaggy, the hairy newjack. Remy hadn’t heard

the top officer enter. Bigger was like a hulking, ill-tempered cat.

“They all learn it sooner or later, sir,” he said, tapping his ba-

ton into his hand for emphasis.

“Ah yes. Sooner or later. Sooner or later. Sooner is by far the

less painful route. Follow the rules, 547298, and I think you’ll find

this to be one of the finest correctional facilities in the entire penal

system.”

Behind the warden and to his left, just beside the enormous

window that overlooked the main yard, stood a beautiful antique

grandfather clock, the wood a brightly polished mahogany. The

gleaming brass hour hand, pointing skyward, was at that moment

joined by its longer, faster colleague, and the clock began its noon


count, twelve clear and resonant tones filling the room in sonorous

succession. The warden closed his eyes, his smile slowly expanding

as he sat back, finding a brief but pure rapture in the twelve o’clock

countdown. Remy and the captain stood at polite, slightly awkward

attention while the warden reveled in the tintinnabulation.

As he waited, Remy reflected idly on the subject of time, spe-

cifically the difference between continuous and discrete time in game

theory. Continuous time games were considerably more difficult to

analyze, requiring infinitesimals and what the mathematicians call

“non-standard analysis.” Standard analysis was bad enough.

When the last of the notes had sounded, the final lingering vi-

brations fading into inaudibility, the warden slowly opened his eyes

again and smiled, the look of a junkie in that magical moment when

the height of the last rush has just begun to pass but the desperate

jones for the next one hasn’t yet kicked in.

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out an old pocket

watch, glistening gold on a silvery chain. He nodded, a smugly satis-

fied look overtaking his face, and an observer could only infer that

the watch was right on the money. He returned the timepiece to his

pocket, then shuffled through a few papers. He put his finger to his

lip as he scanned one of these, Remy still standing at attention, the

room dead quiet but for the steady ticks of the clocks and watch. The

warden looked up again at his new prisoner, gazing out above the

glasses that perched low on his beakish nose.

“But 547298, yours is a somewhat special case.”

“How is that, sir?”

“I have an interesting letter here,” he said, briefly holding up


the document. “I understand that you were given an opportunity

to testify against your partner in crime, in order to earn a lighter

sentence for yourself. Yet you did not accept this generous offer. May

I ask why?”

“It wouldn’t have been right, sir. My associate and I are inno-

cent of those charges.”

The warden shook his head. “Somehow, I had gotten the feel-

ing that you were different from the rest of these reprobates.” He

waved behind him. “But you know, that is what they all say. Every

last one of them.” He let out a long sigh, gravid with scorn and con-

tempt.

“I’m . . . sorry to disappoint you, sir.”

“No matter,” the warden said, waving Remy’s apology away

as he looked down again at his papers. He nudged his glasses along

his nose, then brought the DA’s letter up again and squinted at it.

“Well,” the warden said, the paper he held before his face

preventing any eye contact. “I’ve been talking with Sergeant Gaines

who you may remember from your arrest and District Attorney

Chalmers, who you might recall from your trial.”

“All too well, sir. Those distinguished gentlemen are indelibly

etched in my memory.”

Father Time set the paper down, stared at Remy squarely, siz-

ing him up anew. “Yes . . . of course,” he said in a slow drawl. “Well,

these distinguished gentlemen asked me to cooperate with them on a

certain matter. They wanted me to make it clear that it isn’t too late.”

“Too late, sir?”

“No. It isn’t too late. If you should have some sort of . . . recol-


lection of repressed memory . . . and decide to come clean about

what you and your partner did, well, the state will try both of you on

those armed robbery charges, but you will be given leniency. Atypi-

cally generous leniency. You have at least two years to think about it.

And if it all comes back to you, that’s all you will do. You can walk

out of here after that. Otherwise, you will do four, and that’s only if

your partner doesn’t turn against you. And just between the two of

us, 547298, he’s no boy scout.”

“No, sir. I’m more a scout than he. Much better with knots, for

example.”

The warden scowled, then looked back down at his papers as

he continued. “Well you best hope that your partner’s amnesia holds

as well.”

Remy looked over and noticed the last few grains of sand were

slipping from the top of the hourglass into the bottom. He was eager

for the interview to end and so drew the warden’s attention to it.

“There goes the last of the sand, sir.”

The warden reached over and flipped the hourglass onto the

other side. The sand began to flow anew.

“Remember, 547298,” he said, looking him squarely in the eye.

I’m in charge of time, here. I can always add more.”


Chapter 6Bluffing

For someone as intelligent as you are, Remy thought, you can

be quite the idiot when you really apply yourself. He cursed himself

for taking the ill-advised shortcut through the alley, an egregious

strategic blunder, a foolhardy move in the complex game of life.

Now he could expect to lose his day’s profit, and if that were all he

lost, he’d have to count himself lucky, after all.

He replied to his unseen antagonist, his speech remaining

slow, clear, and deliberate, even in this crisis situation. “Okay, my

friend, there is no need to do anything rash. I’m sure you are a rea-

sonable man.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’re reasonable too. And the reason you

should do what I say is that I’ll shoot you dead if you don’t. That’s a

pretty good reason, ya gotta admit. Now put your hands up in the

air nice and slow, or you’re going to have a few more holes in your

body. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No. I have the optimal number right now.” Up went his

hands. Slowly. Nicely.

“How much money have you got?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I had a bad night with the cards. If I’d

gotten lucky, I’d still be in there, giving it all back.”

“Wallet. Let’s have it. Slowly. Keep your right hand in the air


and get it out of your pocket with your left.”

Remy did as he was told, tossing the wallet behind him.

“Okay you have my money. I don’t know what you look like.

No need for any violence,” Remy reasoned. “Do you want me to

count to 100 before I turn around?”

“What do you think I am, some kind of tourist?” the mugger

retorted. “I do this for a living, pal. I know what I’m doing. This is

my job. You think I don’t know that if you had a lot of cash on you, it

wouldn’t be in your wallet? Take off your shoes.”

Remy silently visited harsh imprecations upon both the mug-

ger and himself in equal measure. Several C-notes were folded into

a square in his left shoe. The wallet contained only a ten and a few

ones, decoys that had abjectly failed their mission.

As he was bending down to remove his tightly laced Converse

high-tops, he managed to steal a surreptitious glance behind him.

The guy was big, but not enormous. Had a thick neck, red hair, and a

bushy beard that was even redder. He probably weighed in at 200 or

thereabouts, so he had about 30 pounds on Remy. Roughly the same

height, an inch or two shy of six foot, but with a lot more meat cling-

ing to his bones. Most importantly, Remy saw that his assailant had

no weapon. No gun. No knife. No tire iron or heavy stick. He was

armed only with a convincing bluff.

Bluffs and threats are essential elements of strategic play in

many of life’s conflict situations, and their frequent effectiveness is a

strong testament to the prevalence of non- zero sum games. Threats

are tactically worthless in two-player, zero-sum games, like chess,

where your opponent’s loss is always your gain, and vice-versa, but


they can be marvelously effective in non-zero sum games.

Getting mugged is a non-zero sum game. Getting shot loses

you points in this game, but it gains the mugger nothing. He can

take the wallet off your live body or off your bleeding carcass, and

he still gains the same amount, while your choices affect how much

you lose. That’s what makes it a non-zero-sum game. Your loss is not

necessarily your opponent’s gain.

Sometimes you can manipulate the situation so that your op-

ponent’s best move is to do what is best for you, and you want him

to know what’s in his own best interest. A mugger wants to make it

very clear that failure to surrender the wallet will result in the high-

est loss of points for his opponent. That’s a threat. And sometimes

you can’t manipulate the situation, but you can achieve the same re-

sult if your opponent believes you can. That is a bluff. The mugger’s

overall strategy was quite sound, but he’d made one critical tactical

blunder.

“Hurry up!” the mugger ordered. “I haven’t got all day!”

“My apologies. The shoelace . . . it’s in a knot . . . just give me a

minute.”

Remy hopped haphazardly on his other foot as he made a

show of working at the obstinate shoelace, cursing loudly.

“Keep it down, asshole” the mugger instructed, “Just get that

shoe off. And if you turn around, you’re a dead man.”

Remy hopped on his one foot as he fumbled with the shoe

until he was within reach of a wooden leg from an old card table,

now smashed and laying in scattered pieces. He pretended to fall,

grabbed the weapon as he got back up to his feet, and spun around,


swinging wildly, catching the mugger solidly in the gut.

The thief doubled over and fell to the ground, reaching for

a jagged piece of metal beside him. Loath to let his advantage slip,

Remy cracked the table leg across his opponent’s wrist, producing a

piercing yowl. He followed up with another jab in the guts for good

measure. The mugger collapsed with an agonized groan.

Remy squatted over his foe, the table leg poised menacingly

above his face. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just kill you.”

The mugger panted, his breath returning to him slowly.

“Because I could . . .” he gasped again, then puked a little.

“Because I could have killed you, but I didn’t.”

Remy paused to consider this, mathematically, game theo-

retically, finding that it rang with truth. His opponent could easily

have just smashed his skull and looted his remains, and this would,

theoretically, have been his best move. Though most muggers are

motivated by the promise of financial rewards, and don’t necessarily

want to hurt anyone, they nevertheless have strong incentives to do

just that. And most muggees would willingly surrender their cash

without a fight, but often get beaten up or killed anyway. Such is the

tragedy of sub-optimization in non-zero-sum games. The mugger

had actually done his intended victim an enormous courtesy and

had taken the first step toward the establishment of a stable coopera-

tive equilibrium, but of course he didn’t know that.

“Fair enough,” Remy said, sitting down and setting the table

leg at his side, but keeping a close eye on the now less threatening

but still potentially dangerous adversary. The mugger rolled over

and pushed himself into a sitting position with great effort and lots


of groaning. He heaved a little, then turned to face Remy.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. I’d appreciate it if you’d return my wallet.”

Remy gripped the table leg as the mugger reached into his

pocket and retrieved the wallet, tossing it over to Remy who glanced

inside to ensure that all the contents remained.

“If it’s any consolation, “ Remy noted as he took inventory,

“you definitely could have taken me in a fair fight. I make it a point

to avoid those if at all possible.”

“Thanks,” the mugger managed. “That’ll definitely help my

bruised ego.”

“How did you know my money was in my shoe?” Remy

inquired.

“Lucky guess.”

“Ah,” Remy replied, raising an eyebrow. “Well you must be

lady luck’s paramour. Why waste your time strong-arming people

when you could be winning money in the casinos yourself?”

“I like to work outside.” The mugger rubbed his injured wrist.

“So, um, aren’t you going to take my money now?”

“I’m a gambler, not a mugger.”

The other man laughed. “Well, I’m not a very good mugger,

obviously. Maybe we should switch.”

Remy pondered deeply. While his unshakably logical mind

rebelled against the much- touted “idea so crazy it just might work,”

he now had one that he couldn’t shake.

“While I’m sure your job is rife with perks, I’m going to pass

on beginning a career in mugging people, but perhaps you should


take up gambling. I have a scheme, a good one, but it’s a two-man

con job. I need a partner.”

The mugger looked up. “No kidding?”

“The potential for profit is high and the risk is small. You play

poker?”

“Hell yeah I do! I’m not bad at it. I’m not a pro either.”

“You don’t have to be. I’ll be adjusting the odds in our favor.

Leave that to me.”

He stood up, offering his hand. “Well, a garbage strewn alley

is hardly the proper venue to discuss serious business proposals.

Let’s go.”

The mugger gripped Remy’s hand in a big meaty paw, nearly

pulling him down as Remy tried to pull him up.

“What’s your name, anyway,” the bigger man asked as he

arose.

“Remy. What’s yours?”

“Mack.”

Remy cast the table leg back into the depths of the alley as

they moved back toward the main road. “Well, Mack, I don’t think

I’ll need that anymore. We have to prepare for that poker scheme

to which I alluded, and right now I’m weary of thinking in terms

of probability. Geometry would be refreshing. Let’s go have a few

drinks and shoot some pool. What do you say?”

“Hell yeah. I love both of those things. You’re buying right?

Things haven’t been going too well at work lately. The last job I was

working on sort of fell through . . .”

“Sure,” Remy said, then paused and raised an eyebrow.


“You’re pretty good?”

Mack smiled smugly. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Excellent. Perhaps we can even pick up a few bucks.” They

started to walk. “So, billiards it is, then. How much trouble could we

possibly get into?”

“Let’s find out.”


About theContributors

Cover Art by Fabio Sassi

Fabio Sassi (www.fabiosassi.foliohd.com) has had several experiences in music, photography and writing. He has been a visual artist since 1990 making acrylics using the stenciling technique on canvas, board, old vinyl records and other media. He uses logos, icons, tiny objects, discarded stuff and shades. He often puts a quirky twist to his subjects to give them an unusual perspective. He lives in Bologna, Italy.

David Steffen writes software by day, and fiction by whatever time he can find for it. His hobbies include algorithmizing his everyday routines, puzzles of various kinds, long walks on the beach, and debugging science fictional software. He is the founder and content editor of Diabolical Plots (http://www.diabolicalplots.com) where he posts interviews, reviews, and Best Of lists, all to do with speculative fiction. He is also the co-founder of The Submissions Grinder (http://thegrinder.diabolicalplots.com), an always-free website which provides listings of fiction markets, and other useful features for writers. Feel free to stop by and leave a comment for him there.

Laural Hunt is an MFA candidate at the Michener Center for Writers at UT Austin. Her poems can be found in or are forthcoming from Pleiades, Forklift, Ohio, and elsewhere.

Laura Lucas was born in the wilds of upstate New York, but now resides in the heart of Seattle, Washington. Her poetry has appeared in Line Zero, Vapid Kitten, and the Poetic Pinup Revue, and she was shortlisted for the 2013 Fish Publishing Poetry Prize. Her interests


include fashion, classic horror and science fiction literature, and theoretical physics. She is often surprised by the amount of crossover between those fields.

Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in The Town of the Queen of the Angels, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, in Echo Park. He is a Member of the Horror Writers Association, and is proud to have been born in the Carter Administration. You can find him at www.robindunn.com.

Julie Smith is a graduate in Mass Communications from California State University, Fullerton. She is an U.S. expat living in Australia and has numerous short stories on line and in print. Work in progress is a novel concentrating on The Dream Time and the colonial effects on the Aboriginals.

Tanya Isch Caylor is the author of Declutter Your Diet: Buffet Goggles, Infinite Pie and Other Imaginary Devices that Helped Me Cut 90 pounds in 9 Months. She lives in Northeast Indiana but spends a lot of time fooling around at the intersection of math and metaphor, much to the amusement/irritation of her husband, Bob, and four kids. “Forager” started out as a post on her blog, 90in9.wordpress.com.

Gary Cuba’s fiction has appeared in more than sixty publications to date, including Jim Baen’s Universe, Flash Fiction Online, and Grantville Gazette: Universe Annex. He lives in South Carolina with his wife and a hoard of freeloading critters (of whom the latter give him no respect at all). Visit his website at http://thefoggiestnotion.com to find links to some of his other quirky tales.

Andrew Breslin is the author of Mother’s Milk (http://www.encpress.com/MM.html), the definitive story of alien cows from Vega. He writes a blog (http://andyrantsandraves.blogspot.com), that covers pretty much whatever crosses his mind. His book reviews can be found at Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/820871.Andrew_Breslin) and are always entertaining and informative, or at least he thinks so. His fiction site (http://atbreslin.


com) is still a work in progress. Some of the existing stories on his fiction site concern mathematics. Some are just weird. He lives in Philadelphia with his cat and his girlfriend, neither of whom are nearly as fascinated by mathematics as he is, but both of whom make up for it by being cute.

About the StaffImaginaire is produced by Joshua Allen, with assisstance from the wonderful volunteer work of Chris Steiha, Liz Wason, and Christina Jones. We will strive to bring you an issue of Imaginaire at least twice a year, and more if we can. We appreciate any feedback you care to send us.

Josh can be reached by email at [email protected]. Josh is a writer and manuscript editor living in Central Illinois. He loves bugs, photography, mathematics, building electrict guitars by hand, and writing science fiction and horror. For more info, check out his blog at www.writerjosh.net.

imaginaire issue 3

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