The Gamesman

by Barry N. Malzberg

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Alien Contact

Synopsis

A staggering vision of Earth in the not-so-distant future. . . In a controlled and mechanical world, the only reality is fear and killing boredom. The only escape from mind-blowing monotony is the Game, with predictable rules of stimulus and response. And if you pit yourself against the Games Master, you may lose your last vestige of sanity. Or your life! 'There are perhaps a dozen genius writers in this genre and Barry is at least eight of them' - Harlan Ellison

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 180

Sample

MY GAMESMAN: Although he and I, although he and Papa Joe (sometimes I think of myself in the first person and other times I think of myself in the third; it is this shift of perspective, of the panels of attribution, which makes me the complex and valuable human being which I am) have never spoken to one another out of the role-exchange, I feel that we have a personal relationship, that indeed in some other context it would be possible for me, Papa Joe, to go up to him, to place a confidential arm on his shoulder, to draw him aside and begin to whisper confidences of the Mill which he would understand as no one has ever done. I do believe this, that I could if I would touch Gamesman, glimpse it vividly in dreams or in little aspects of light. I see the way that Gamesman and I might be if we were ever to achieve that moment of connection, bleak but breaking into a warmth of feeling I had never before known but no—

—No, this is quite impossible. We will never have our moment, Gamesman and I. This must be accepted; it is necessary in all aspects to stay within the roles and so, almost heedless of his presence or of my great burden, I center myself over the girl once again, trying to wedge my way through. Enticement beckons or at least it glimmers, glimmers and shimmers, Papa Joe always moving forward through the strobes of light. “Time,” Gamesman says. “Hurry up please, it’s time.”

Under the mask his mouth must have moved to say this; he must be breathing in little shallow gulps but there is nonetheless a dehumanized aspect to him and he is for that reason frightening, frightening as well as demanding, but no exceptions are to be made to the role, to this situation in which we are placed and I must realize that there is nothing personal here; that we could, indeed, make connection sometime… if it were necessary. Holding the watch, leaning against the wall, he admonishes me once more. T. S. Eliot today. “Hurry up please, it’s time. Hurry up please, it’s time.”

He must find this, my Gamesman, essentially dull. Like all of us he has an intelligence which ranges far beyond his simple and deadly work but then does this mark him for sympathetic response? There is a hint of effeminacy in his tone but on the other hand I dare not engage in extended analyses of Gamesman. It serves no purpose. Nothing does. My opinions do not matter. What matters, as always, is to meet terms.

And so, I fuck. Fucking is as depersonalized under Gamesman as could be expected (I feel no need to explicate this), nevertheless one can find efficiency on any level of disbelief and therefore Block, Block is now fucking. Watch him do so along with both Gamesman and me, Gamesman clutching his watch, the detached persona which is only partially myself circling the spaces of the room. He straddles his partner awkwardly, his knees spread so that they may contain her thighs, his half-erect little member trying with many bobs and flourishes to manage entrance. Of course this is inept; there is no way in which entrance can be made from this posture (Block knows this) but Block is not thinking in the most accurate terms due to his stress and, perhaps, a hint of sexual naivete. What can be said of him? Only that he is doing the best that he can. No more can be demanded of him in this role.

Nor of his partner; he will never know her. She is mere accessory to the situation. How dare sentimentalize for his partner? She is merely working under her own Gamesman. Nevertheless Block has a tug of feeling, he wishes that he could know her better, in some personal sense that is to say. This thought is discarded. “You’d better get moving, you,” Gamesman says, less formally, and so Block does this; he is eager to cooperate, his position on this is well known, the girl he straddles cooperates indolently by taking his organ in her hand, stroking with thumb and forefinger, trying to wring from Block manually an encouragement that he could never sustain through force of will… and oh he is grateful or he would be if there were time to contemplate; unfortunately, and at this moment, it is the fact of the Game itself which overtakes him.

The Game, the Game controls: Block must not disgrace himself and so, ignoring the girl’s efforts which seem barely conterminous to his, ignoring the mumbles of displeased Gamesman, regarding his partner with little more compassion than Gamesman might find for him, Block works himself into quicker and more frenzied efforts, dredging her surfaces, seeking some point of entrance… and groaning with the conviction of his renewed disgrace he climaxes in her hand (as he knew he would), little whimpers and sighs through the room, vagrant jets of semen trickling to her little breasts as she shakes her head, tongue protruding, with an expression of disgust.

“You’re a fool,” she says, or perhaps this is merely Block addressing himself the woman being mute, it is hard for him (in this intensity) to separate the voices. “Oh you are a fool,” and she slides free of him, dropping underneath, and so she leaves the pallet, staggering through the room and out of it, only Block there now with Gamesman, Block whimpering, Gamesman saying nothing, as the last drops are shaken out. Block bites his tongue. His eyes roll. He would think of his disgrace if he could but now there is only the fact of failure. They are not the same. Not under the rules.

“That is fourteen minutes and twelve seconds,” Gamesman says quietly. “Failure of entrance. That is not satisfactory. It is, in fact, not at all workable. Do you not know shame?”

Block moans, draws up his knees, falls to one side. Although he should be, he is not prepared at this time for the advisements of Gamesman. “Know shame,” Gamesman says. But the situation is rigorous as Block more than anyone would know. Its rituals cannot be denied.

“And what is more,” Gamesman says behind his hood, “you did not during this time even attempt an entrance.” He takes out a pad, makes a small note, his mask flapping? in a way which demonstrates the short breaths of disgust. “Your performance is not satisfactory,” Gamesman says, “it is completely unsatisfactory.”

“Enough,” Block says. There is no doubt about this: he is humiliated. That purpose at least has been accomplished; he feels the rose of shame growing within. “I tried—”

“You did not try. Your median has decreased more than six minutes in this latest series and now you are not even attempting completion. This is not sex but its simulation.”

“Stop it—”

“You are the one who selected the conditions; they were posed by you alone to meet their answer within. You are cheating no one but yourself. How,” Gamesman says reasonably, “how are you ever going to have normal, sustained sex if you insist upon carrying through in this manner?”

“Stop it,” Block says again. “Go away. I have the right to order you to do that.” From the penitentiary of orgasm he has recovered or is about to recover (he thinks, delusively) some of his self-confidence. Now he can see that Gamesman is merely a functionary, no more threatening than his partner or the conditions of the Game themselves. Everything is relative; if he wishes it to be insignificant so it will be. Only the policies and procedures disgorge menace, “Get out of here now.”

“Hostility or dismissal is never a solution,” Gamesman says, “and most deservedly they will get you nowhere. The Game is merely a simulacrum, a metaphor for life; if you fail here you fail outside. Consider the consequences of your condition.”

“It’s my Game. I can select what I want it to be; only I can judge—”

“Oh no,” Gamesman says patiently. His patience is surprising considering that he has been through this many times before but he is, of course, merely a functionary. “It is our Game, mine as well, it involves all of us,” and this too is true; in this role-exchange Block can say nothing right, Gamesman nothing wrong. He knows this yet must drive himself sullenly onward. Perhaps this is an insight into life itself; one does not know but one must go on. Call it metaphysics. “Everyone is culpable,” Gamesman says, “and in that shared implication you are farther now from succeeding than you were several attempts’ past. This cannot continue of course; at least if you wish to go on to the next level.”

“You mean you are invoking a penalty situation.”

“Oh, that will come. That will definitely come along now.”

“Next time,” Block says, “will be different. I will be a lot more patient and I will really take my time.” He resists an impulse to snivel; it is dismaying how quickly Gamesman can break him down. Little wafts of his partner’s odor seem to pass through the room toward another destination, he traps some of them through inhalation. In another situation he might have felt passion for her, he thinks.

“Nothing will be different.”

“Yes it will,” Block says, “everything will be different. The theory of renewal. You do not have to endlessly reenact the past, you can move beyond it. Isn’t that the point of the theory?”

“Not necessarily,” Gamesman says. Behind his mask he is becoming petulant. “Everyone frames as he must. Your frame is recapitulative.”

Sometimes Block becomes enraged; he would like Gamesman to show a little more voice inflection, pity, courtesy, feeling, response, some hint, that is, of individuation, but then he remembers in the next instant the true facts of the Game. And admonishes himself. He must face the reality of the situation here. He will not be destroyed by the sentimental constituent.

“Everything will be different,” he says, “you must trust me on that.”

“You have said that before and you will say it again. The next time and the time after that. But you cannot live on excuses any more, Block. Are you a self-flagellant or a copulant? Do you want to accumulate credits or merely pick up penalty points? Do you believe in the Game and the force which it commands or would you rather exist within the mere parameters of self? What do you want to be? I would like to encourage you but you’re making it very difficult, you see. Very difficult,” Gamesman sighs and puts away his marker. “After all,” he adds, “I don’t control this, you do. It’s your life; it has to be your decision.”

“I want to be a copulant,” Block says.

“I doubt it.”

“I do.”

“You are lying.”

“I am not,” he says. The rules are strict. Block must listen to the Gamesman unprotesting; he must, unprotesting, accept what is said. Only in the later reports may he make his own position known (if he desires to file a special rider) and then the committee turns down ninety-nine out of one hundred such protests, being faithful only to their mechanics. Really, there is no appeal. Block should submit, he thinks. He really should submit to this. He should put on his robes and leave the room at once rather than continue this.

But Block (he preens himself a little on this) has pride. Not for nothing has he accepted the conditions of this Game; he has some self-respect too. He wonders about the girl. Will he see her again? Will they transfer partners on him once more? Will he have another chance with her or will he lose her by lot? There has been, he thi. . .