THE CHESS GAME
PROLOGUE
Technology. It's a word that embodies the large and little things that humans have created in order to make life slightly more user-friendly.
It is human power, something that has become part of our evolution.
Decades pass, and this power, from airplanes to nanoscopic machines, has become our advance through the ages. But where is the ultimate culmination of human effort? What is our technological perfection?
That is a simple question, with a simple answer. The mystery of nature, which, before the coming of man, had already put birds in the air and fish in the sea. We are trying to replicate the perfection of nature and the chaos of the universe… so why did we even bother in the first place? After basic survival, there is no reason- except that we can. So, why not? Why can't we alter the genetic code and build machines that are- almost- natural?
What happens when we reach perfection?
"I assure you, Jones, this is almost perfect."
It was late morning, and the sun glinted cheerily over the reflective buildings of New York City. People milled the bustling city streets, and the usual chorus of taxis and congested traffic was shot through with a multitude of conversations.
It was of quite a mild temperature, and the cafés had sprawled their tables across the pavement, hoping to ensnare hurried pedestrians lacking in breakfast. A normal day, in most people's opinion.
But 'most people' did not include Agents… especially Agents with the aroma of a hot latté invading their nostrils, and definitely Agents who could smell this and confidently claim that none of it- not even the chewing gum stuck to the sole of their left shoe- was real.
Agent Brown, holding the Styrofoam cup with delicate precision, accompanied his proclamation of quality with a polite look of "I went to all the trouble of getting you this and you'd better accept it, you lazy sod!" (as well as any man behind semi-opaque sunglasses can).
"You know quite comprehensively that I am lactose intolerant, Brown." Agent Jones' fingers rested on the edge of the steering wheel, and his uncanny generic appearance did little to mask the bite of pure sarcasm that, when it comes down to it, a computer program shouldn't normally possess.
His colleague considered carefully whether to be affronted, and decided against it. It was pointless to create internal conflict with another entity, unless there was something to be gained from it.
Anyway, he spent every working moment with Jones, and knew from experience that the other Agent had a particularly sour manner when it came to arguments.
Still…
"I am well informed of that, Jones." Somehow, the slicked back hair and suit rendered the American accent indistinguishable. You can always pick an Agent- tie clips, not a hair out of place, and every moment of your life handily documented when they need it.
"I simply chose to override your petty attempt at simulating personal flaws," Brown concluded, now distracted with the effects of the latté steam that was obstructing the view through his sunglasses, and added, "It is quite necessary for us to appear organic, which includes the consumption of beverages."
"I am making an individual attempt at idiosyncrasy. I am therefore obtaining an 'organic' persona without unnecessary external aide." Jones, curt as ever, returned his view to through the windshield of their car.
Within a moment, Agent Brown joined him. "If you were really trying hard, Jones, you'd say: I don't want a beverage. I'm annoyed Agent Brown thought of it first. I'm a condescending-"
Agent Jones stifled him with his trademark Blank Look, and the pair sat in silence, one contemplating the nature of this particularly long morning, the other taking a sip of the $1.50 breakfast special from Starbucks on the corner.