Chapter 41.
They have each been given four games from which they can choose:
Chess.
Checkers.
Go.
Scrabble.
They will all have the same opponent, whatever game they choose: Artificial Intelligence.
A low, unhappy growl comes from Ant Tipton, seated two rows over, dressed in black like he’s still on contract.
“Blazing computer science,” he mutters, “or one of the options would be Charades.”
A few people smother laughs.
As soon as the words are out of Tipton’s mouth, The Host responds. When they’re assembled like this, Big Brother always seems to be watching and listening.
It’s why so many have taken to spending more time outdoors, every chance they get.
“It’s clear you consider yourself quite the wit, Mr. Tipton,” The Host says. “But we’re about to find out how you do when it’s a battle of wits, and you have to rely on your brains and not simply your brawn.”
Tipton doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes on the menu like he’s choosing wine.
“I’m not worried,” Tipton says. “I run a business built on intelligence. And before that, I topped my class in the Marines.”
Jack McHenry is listening with amusement to the exchange along with everybody else in the room. But thinking he might be far more amused than others.
“Pottery?” Jack asks.
Jack has avoided Tipton since dinner, not wanting to escalate the hard feelings between them. But he can’t help himself in the moment and he’s quite pleased when he hears some of those in the immediate area laughing at his comment. Jack feels Elena’s shoulder shake beside him.
Tipton finally looks over. He gives Jack a smile that could pass for friendly if you didn’t know better.
“Funny,” Tipton says. “What did you pick, Sergeant Major?”
“Chess,” Jack says.
“Of course you did,” Tipton replies, like he’s complimenting him and insulting him at the same time.
“Just curious,” Jack says. “What about you, Tipton?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Go,” Tipton says.
“Words too long for you in Scrabble?” Jack asks.
“That will be quite enough repartee,” The Host says, cutting them both off.
“Whatever game you all have chosen, you are about to be challenged by AI the way you’ve all been challenged by nature.
And even though these are almost certainly games some of you have been playing since childhood, survival of the fittest will still be very much in play this morning.
Only this time it will be man—or woman—against machine. ”
Reg Drummond raises a hand, like he’s back at a press conference.
“One question,” Reg says. “How are you scoring this, exactly?”
The Aussie is a few seats down from Jack.
“Since we’re all playing different games, how will the ultimate winners be decided?” Reg asks.
“Are you really asking who’s going to end up on the medal platform, Mr. Drummond?” The Host says.
“I guess you could put it that way,” Reg says.
“You’re still trying to locate the finish line,” The Host says. “That’s understandable. But you’ll learn what matters the way you’ve learned everything here—after the fact.”
“That’s not sport,” Reg says.
“To me it is,” The Host replies. “Because to me, sport is not about fairness. It’s about exposure.”
No one moves.
“And today,” The Host continues, “we expose the mind. Plus, I suspect the only winner today will be the superiority of machine over man.”
Tipton leans back and rests one hand behind his head like he’s about to enjoy a movie. The other hand drifts to the chain at his neck seeking the comfort of an old habit.
“We’ll see,” he says.
“Oh, you will, Mr. Tipton,” The Host says. “Before the morning is over, I fully expect you all will.”
“If you’re so certain we’re all going to lose,” Reg says, “why even play the games?”
“Let me worry about that,” The Host says.