1 Practical Applications of Game Theory. A Novel Author’s Note This story does not take place in the universe as we know it, but in a reasonably close parallel one. The prisoner’s dilemma is the most famous example from the realm of mathematics known as game theory. As such, Remy Martin, the game theorist who finds himself at the very center of it, would probably realize that this is far too convenient, and that he must therefore be a character in a novel, subsequently facing an existential crisis. He’s very clever and would figure it out. For the sake of spinning a good yarn, we just have to pretend that the game theorists of this world never used the specific example of the prisoner’s dilemma to illustrate this type of conflict. While this pushes the entire tale into the realm of the surreal, it beats the alternative in which the protagonist would simply stop performing for our amusement and begin plotting to escape from the book. 2 Chapter 1 The Prisoner’s Dilemma A holding cell. Mid 1990’s. Somewhere in the Midwest. “Well, It’s not looking good,” the haggard, over-worked and under-shaved public defender conceded. He dropped a stack of papers onto the bare concrete floor of the holding cell, swore in Latin, then stooped to pick them up, managing to drop a few more. “You might even say it’s looking bad,” he suggested as he gathered up his documents. “If you were a pessimist. And you consider several years in a state penitentiary to be a bad thing. But it’s just a matter of how bad, really. You’re definitely going up the river, but it’s up to you how far.” The prisoner, Remy Martin, a bedraggled, wiry, whiskered rascal, covered with dirt and stinking of guilt, slowly dragged his gaze upwards. The single 40-watt bulb dangling on the other side of the bars behind the attorney struggled to illuminate the barren cell, leaving his face barely visible in the shadow. “Tell me more,” Martin said, raising one eyebrow with exaggerated interest, falling just shy of obvious, mocking contempt. His accent was an exotic chimera, the aural pastiche of an itinerant vagabond who’d run away from his Louisiana home as a boy and taken up with assorted unsavory rogues in far-flung regions, speaking an eclectic smorgasbord of patois and argots. Yet it was elegant, crisp and sonorous, his enunciation slow and flawless, like a ballerina performing an exquisite legato dévéloppé, and ever so discreetly extending a raised middle finger for the briefest instant as she goes into a pirouette. 3 “The state has more than enough evidence to convict you and your accomplice on burglary and theft. We can’t beat that rap. They’ve got witnesses, fingerprints. Your partner was actually wearing some of the stolen merchandise when you two were arrested, so that’s pretty much a smoking gun. Oh, and a gun, too. The cops found a gun, but it can’t be directly tied to you guys, which makes it a little bit less like a smoking gun, speaking metaphorically rather than structurally. But the evidence that they have is enough to convict you both. Guaranteed.” “I see,” Martin said, nodding slowly. “But I get the impression that you have another shoe to drop. Metaphorically.” “Well, the state can’t prove everything that they suspect that you did. I mentioned that gun they can’t directly tie to you. There’s a small matter of an armed robbery in Groversdale.” “I—” The attorney waved his hands to shut Remy up. “Hey hey! Come on. Be careful what you say! I’m your attorney. I’m not interested in whether you did it or not. Unless you didn’t do it.” He paused for a moment and Remy remained silent. “Like I said, I’m not interested in whether you did it or not. The point is, they can’t prove anything about that armed robbery. But they want to offer you a deal.” “A deal? Is it from the bottom of the deck?” “Clever puns. Yeah, I hear juries love those. Listen: if you confess to the robbery and testify against your partner-in-crime, Mr. Vicker” he pronounced the name of Remy’s associate with obvious disgust, as if the word itself had a foul taste, the speaking of which 4 would necessitate extensive gargling. “You do that, and they’ll cut you a break. You’ll only do two years. Without any testimony from either of you, both of you are going up for four years on the other charges. Guaranteed.” Remy pondered the offer. “And if I testify against Mack? What will he get?” The lawyer shrugged. “He’ll get ten years. If he stays quiet and you testify he’ll get ten years.” “But the state is making the same offer to him, aren’t they?” “Of course they are. Wouldn’t be fair not to give him a tantalizing moral dilemma too. And if you don’t cooperate and he testifies, then you’ll be the one scratching hatch marks on the wall for a decade.” “What if we both give in, take the state up on its oh-so-generous offer. What then?” “They’ll knock a couple of years off for the confession. You’ll each get eight years.” As your attorney, I strongly advise you to take them up on the offer and testify.” He left some paperwork with Remy then turned and called for the officer to come and let him out of the cell. He and the taciturn turnkey began to walk down the hall when the attorney swiveled back around with an afterthought. “There really isn’t much to think about. You haven’t got a thing to lose by testifying. Doesn’t matter what Vicker does. If he sings and you stay mum, you’ll get ten years, instead of the eight you would have gotten if you’d cooperated. If he keeps quiet and you do too, you’re gonna get four years, but you’ll be out in two if you go stoolie in that case. Think about it.” “I’ll give it the deepest consideration,” Martin said evenly. “I guarantee you, Vicker’s already thinking about it. Thinking hard.” 5 Remy nodded as his lawyer turned again and disappeared down the hallway. After he was out of earshot the prisoner mumbled aloud. “So another game has begun.” Chapter 2 Ancient Greek Mathematicians “Remy, your father is calling you.” “Un moment.” His mother opened the door without her usual perfunctory courtesy knock. Her twelve-year-old son was seated on his unmade bed, a hulking text opened in his lap. On the mattress beside him lay a notebook, covered with messily scrawled symbols and diagrams, intimidating and inscrutable. “What is so important that you have to keep your father waiting, eh?” Her accent had diluted only slightly through the generations since Acadia, while her son would never develop more than a hint of it, flavoring his overall elocution. “I am reading, Mamere,” he announced without the briefest glance toward her. As if to demonstrate the truth of his assertion, his eyes continued to scan a complex proof. “Ah have two eyes, Remy. Ah kin see that. Stop reading and go see your father in the shop. He wants to show you how to make a bench.” “Carpentry doesn’t interest me.” 6 His mother folded her arms across her chest and glared down at the single ungrateful fruit that had somehow managed to spring from her loins. “Well fuh shore! You’ve made no secret of dat! Do you want to break your poor father’s heart? Is that it? Break your father’s heart? Quo’ faire? “I don’t want to break anyone’s heart,” Remy said, finally looking up. “I just don’t want to learn carpentry. That’s all.” “Oh, dat’s not good enough for you, eh? It was good enough for your father and your papere, but it’s not good enough for Remy Martin.” “I have nothing against carpentry, Mother. It just doesn’t interest me.” “And what does?” “Mathematics,” he replied, diving back into his text on Diophantine equations. “And how do you expect to earn a living? Who is going to pay you for mathematics?” “Plenty of people.” He shrugged, not entirely certain he believed it, but fairly sure that he didn’t care. “Is that so? Whare are dese people, eh? Ah go to the hospital sometimes. The doctor, he gets some money. I go to make the groceries, eh? The grocer gets some money. But ah never needed a mathematician. You goin’ to set up a little math shop on Maple Street, eh? Or were you plannin’ to go door to door?” “That’s not—” “ ‘Excuse me madam,’ ” his mother mocked. “ ‘I’m a wandering mathematician, and ah was wondering if you have any troublin’ equations lying around.’ Well, madam, I can solve for X, an’ I’ll throw in Y for half price.’ ” “That’s not the way it works.” 7 “Well you should start thinking about how you are going to make some money. If you want ta go off to college and study mathematics, it’s going to cost a pretty penny.” She rubbed the tips of her thumb, index and middle fingers together. “You may as well make it doing carpentry. Dere’s math in that. You have to measure tings. You would love it.” “I don’t need college.