(An Anthology of Superpermutation d8 Chess)
"The eight-faced die contains all possible games. But only one matters — where you play against yourself."
— Inscription on an obsidian chessboard, discovered in the Taklamakan Desert
Walking through the endless corridors of my own dreams, I came upon an obsidian door of colossal size. Upon it shimmered inscriptions carved in a style that resembled both cuneiform and musical notation. I didn’t know this language, but as my fingers brushed the cold surface, they traced out the words:
"He who enters must remember:
The pawn is you.
The queen is also you.
But the king… the king belongs to no one."
I pushed the door—and the obsidian dissolved like smoke. Beyond lay a room without walls, where the ceiling shimmered with constellations shaped like chess pieces.
At a stone table sat a man—my exact double, save for his eyes: his pupils were square, like chessboard cells. Before him stood a board, not of wood, but woven from shadows and moonlight.
"I’ve been waiting," he said, rolling an eight-sided die between his fingers. "Shall we begin?"
We began to play Superpermutation d8 Chess.
Every roll of the die triggered cascades of piece swaps, as if the pieces drowned in the board’s mirrored surface only to resurface transformed. At one point, my queen on the e-file suddenly remembered she had once been a pawn in a past life and lunged at the black king.
The Oracle showed 5
White to move
17. Qe5-e6-e7+
The queen began to melt like wax, pooling into the black squares. "Don’t fear," the double murmured, tracing the dissolving crown. "They’ve always been pawns. Even kings. Especially kings." Only a droplet remained, reflecting every game I’d ever lost.
17. ... Ke8xe7
The game continued without the white queen. With each move, the board lost color, fading to ash-gray. The pieces dragged as if through the thick air of forgotten choices. Even the die rolls now yielded only 4 and 5—as if the universe had collapsed into these two dimensions.
The Oracle showed 4
Black to move
32. ... Qd4-e5-e3+
"Your queen lies," the double declared, sliding my king to h1. "But I have no queen," I protested. "Exactly why she lies." A new piece materialized—translucent, flickering. "This is the move you never made in 2014."
Sweat drenched me, but I played on, jaw clenched until it ached. A few more moves, and this torment would end. I already saw the final position: my king, cornered like a hunted animal, his queen advancing for the killing blow. Then I noticed the shadows of the pieces forming the number 6—the same that had appeared on the die that fateful day in 2014. A sign… or fate’s last mockery.
The Oracle showed 6
White to move
41. Be4-f5#
When I declared mate (bishop to f5), the double laughed:
"You misunderstand. You’ve just lost."
He pointed at the board—and I saw the black pieces were now on my side.
How? I’d played White. He, Black.
The room trembled. Star-pieces rained onto the board, rotting into dead leaves...
I awoke at a chess table in an empty café, clutching a black pawn. My name was engraved on it.
In the mirror behind the counter, no one stared back.
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