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of resisting Nicosar. Pretend there really was a lot at stake, pretend he was
fighting for the whole Culture; set out to win, regardless, no matter& . At
least he'd found a way to play, finally.
He knew he was going to lose, but it would not be a rout.
He gradually remodelled his whole game-plan to reflect the ethos of the
Culture militant, trashing and abandoning whole areas of the board where the
switch would not work, pulling back and regrouping and restructuring where it
would; sacrificing where necessary, razing and scorching the ground where he
had to. He didn't try to mimic Nicosar's crude but devastating attack-escape,
return-invade strategy, but made his positions and his pieces in the image of
a power that could eventually cope with such bludgeoning, if not now, then
later, when it was ready.
He began to win a few points at last. The game was still lost, but there was
still the
Board of Becoming, where at last he might give Nicosar a fight.
Once or twice he caught a certain look on Nicosar's face, when he was close
enough to read the apex's expression, that convinced him he'd done the right
thing, even if it was something the Emperor had somehow expected. There was a
recognition there now, in the apex's expression and on the board, and even a
kind of respect in those moves; an acknowledgement that they were fighting on
even terms.
Gurgeh was overcome by the sensation that he was like a wire with some
terrible energy streaming through him; he was a great cloud poised to strike
lightning over the board, a colossal wave tearing across the ocean towards the
sleeping shore, a great pulse of molten energy from a planetary heart; a god
with the power to destroy and create at will.
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Iain M. Banks - The Player of Games (1988) v1.0 : Scanned by HugHug
He had lost control of his own drug-glands; the mix of chemicals in his
bloodstream had taken over, and his brain felt saturated with the one
encompassing idea, like a fever; win, dominate, control; a set of angles
defining one desire, the single absolute determination.
The breaks and the times when he slept were irrelevant; just the intervals
between the real life of the board and the game. He functioned, talking to
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the drone or the ship or other people, eating and sleeping and walking around&
but it was all nothing; irrelevant. Everything outside was just a setting and
a background for the game.
He watched the rival forces surge and tide across the great board, and they
spoke a strange language, sang a strange song that was at once a perfect set
of harmonies and a battle to control the writing of the themes. What he saw
in front of him was like a single huge organism; the pieces seemed to move as
though with a will that was neither his nor the Emperor's, but something
dictated finally by the game itself, an ultimate expression of its essence.
He saw it; he knew Nicosar saw it; but he doubted anybody else could. They
were like a pair of secret lovers, secure and safe in their huge nest of a
room, locked together before hundreds of people who looked on and who saw but
who could not read and who would never guess what it was they were witnessing.
The game on the Board of Form came to an end. Gurgeh lost, but he had pulled
back from the brink, and the advantage Nicosar would take to the Board of
Becoming was far from decisive.
The two opponents separated, that act over, the final one yet to commence.
Gurgeh left the prow-hall, exhausted and drained and gloriously happy, and
slept for two days. The drone woke him.
'Gurgeh? Are you awake? Have you stopped being vague?'
'What are you talking about?'
'You; the game. What's going on? Even the ship couldn't work out what was
happening on that board.' The drone floated above him, brown and grey, humming
quietly. Gurgeh rubbed his eyes, blinked. It was morning; there were about
ten days to go before the fire was due. Gurgeh felt as though he was waking
from a
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Iain M. Banks - The Player of Games (1988) v1.0 : Scanned by HugHug dream more
vivid and real than reality.
He yawned, sitting up. 'Have I been vague?'
'Does pain hurt? Is a supernova bright?'
Gurgeh stretched, smirking. 'Nicosar's taking it impersonally,' he said,
getting up and padding to the window. He stepped out on to the balcony.
Flere-Imsaho tutted and threw a robe around him.
'If you're going to start talking in riddles again& '
'What riddles?' Gurgeh drank in the mild air. He flexed his arms and
shoulders again. 'Isn't this a fine old castle, drone?' he said, leaning on
the stone rail and taking another deep breath. 'They know how to build
castles, don't they?'
'I suppose they do, but Klaff wasn't built by the Empire. They took it off
another humanoid species who used to hold a ceremony similar to the one the
Empire holds to crown the Emperor. But don't change the subject. I asked you
a question. What that style? You've been very vague and strange the past
few is days; I could see you were concentrating so I didn't press the point,
but I and the ship would like to be told.'
'Nicosar's taken on the part of the Empire; hence his style. I've had no
choice but to become the Culture, hence mine. It's that simple.'
'It doesn't look it.'
'Tough. Think of it as a sort of mutual rape.'
'I think you should straighten out, Jernau Gurgeh.'
'I'm-' Gurgeh started to say, then stopped to check. He frowned in
exasperation. 'I'm perfectly straight, you idiot! Now why don't you do
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