3D Chess at the Bestowal Rue

To my Brother Zel Gamption, or the descendants that proceed him,

Deep in the Digital Recess of the Reconstituted Divine Fleet, within its strictly apportioned central mainframe and time-locked environs, configured so as to never stray too far behind Primary Time (so that it might be a Recess, but never an Escape) there lies a place vouchsafed in tribute, half dive bar, half memorial. It is a space dedicated to the memory of a fallen Divine, one of particular significance to the powers that be. It is consecrated by the somber and celebratory practice of a game that transcends victory.

The place is called The Bestowal Rue. The game has many names, notable among them are Contrition's Orbit, the Chorale Votive, Sorrow, and the Tragicomedy Divine. The digital space is immaculate as it is unassuming. It possesses the kind of parity with physical space that would lockjaw most digital architects outside of the lowest levels of the Splice, although its comparatively humble location off the main electronic strip obscures it from the prodding interest of technical clientele, and so it should. The priceless virtual-similitude is largely reserved for the wafting smells of teas, spices, and a particular attention to lighting.

The Bestowal Rue is a tea bar, tea served according to the elaborate rituals of Old Fleet customs. There are tea rituals for all 300 divines, splintered and multiplied over the vivacious cultural fusion of the thousand year city ships. The uninitiated will come in occasionally and try to stump the courteous automatic bartender with orders of increasingly obscure vintage. So far, none have come close, though most stop before their requests demand any kind of rigor. They are not encouraged. It is simply not that kind of place. Talk too loud for too long and, while no one will reprimand you, (the game has seen so much worse), all but the most bullheaded patrons will conceive themselves as disrespectful and quiet down to watch the games. Most will bore and leave after observing a few games and consuming a single mug of tea. There are very few now that have graced the confines of Contrition's Figure, although I am told that no one knows the true number. The legacy of the Old Fleet is such that it is considered rude to guess.

A few more newcomers stay and participate. The Foundational Rules are adhered to columns throughout the bar. Anyone can learn to play swiftly, but of course they do not stay for the Foundational Rules, any more than than an Divine receives preference over an Excerpt.

The game is a simple one, at least for those who were raised in such a manner as to conceive of themselves as falling through space. It is practiced at projector tables that dot the barroom like islands. Three fleets, equally apportioned, orbiting each other throughout space and time. Planets and central systems populate the galactic expanse, asteroids sweep through the sky in adherence to pre-calculated and mathematically rigorous intervals. Dotted abstractions and shapes represent different and necessary components of the fleet. Divines are spheres textured in Gold, Excerpts are a single bold alpha (Excerpts, you may remember, are those whose names are verse, the sentient partners of Divines). The primary objective, spelled in bold heading: The Final Elimination of Conflict, the rules for supremacy are diligently explained in the postings around the bar.

The rules are elegant, yet simple, as are all the Arts of War when properly distilled. There is a natural disposition among the more human attendees to relish in the conflict, to be tantalized in the calculation of conflict and challenge. Strife and glorious victory are promised in the teeter of three equally weighted and opposed sides. A clever man, who was still early in the Resonance himself, once described these young people (and they are always young, even when they are old) to be in "Concubinage to Mars". Mars, he explained to me, was a planet of some importance to the first fleet of antiquity, a planet that was pointedly left behind when their ancestors moved the Earth.

The bar is always filled, but never crowded, perhaps another example of the digital mastery at work. Looking across the bar, you will see some of the outer tables filled with such warriors. Players who entertain themselves through combat. But the more astute of the newcomers will be at the bar, sipping tea impeccably matched their custom or mood. They will sit and try to understand how the regulars, these apparently dedicated individuals could play so bizarrely, so contrary to the rules of war. Pieces are regularly left unguarded, there are senseless moves into empty space. A planet is avoided at the cost of ten ships. They sip their tea and squint, trying to understand, and we all hope they do.