Mardock Scramble Vol 2 Chapter 8

Chapter 8
EXPLOSION
01
Balot now adopted a different strategy. She started aiming for the lower payouts, bets that would
double or triple her stake.
She was currently going after the even money bets that ran down the side of the numbers on the layout.
There were three types of bets. Low/high—that is, 1-18 or 19-36. Odds/evens. Black/red.
Each resulted in a doubling of the original stake. Balot was mainly sticking to low/high as she took in
the sensations of the wheel, the ball, and Bell Wing’s fingertips.
There were a number of points she was to take note of, and Oeufcoque conveyed what these were by
writing on her left hand. The angle of the bowl’s incline, the shape and number of the metal pins, and the
slope of the dome inside the wheel. On top of that she also had to pay attention to the depth of the pockets
and note whether they were cushioned or not.
The bias in how the ball landed was determined by the wheel and how it was spun. If the bowl were
shallow, the ball wouldn’t bounce as much on its way down. The metallic pins were easier to read when
they were shaped like rods, and the fewer of them there were, the easier it was to predict the path of the
ball as it ricocheted off them. The steeper the incline on the dome, the more likely the ball was to fall
straight down; the deeper the pockets—and the more padding they had—the less likely the ball was to
bounce back out of the pocket.
The table that Balot was currently sitting at pa.s.sed muster on all these points. The wheel was level,
and the bowl wasn’t too deep. There were four cylindrical rods, four diamond-shaped ones. The angle of
the dome’s incline was more or less forty-five degrees exactly. The pockets were a little over five
millimeters deep.
If the wheel had been less ideal then Balot had planned on giving up immediately to find greener
pastures elsewhere. But instead she found herself fired up, ready for a challenge
In response to her newfound determination, Oeufcoque’s writing disappeared from her hand to be
replaced with something useful: the number of rotations.
The number of times the ball went around and the number of times the wheel went around.
All the while Balot’s bets were progressing steadily from bets that paid double her stake to those that
paid triple.
Column bets: choosing one of the three lines of numbers to bet on, excluding the 0 and the 00.
Douzaine bets: choosing one of 1-12, 13-24, or 25-36. This also paid out triple her original stake.
Weaving backward and forward from one of these bets to the other, Balot and Oeufcoque gradually
started piecing together a picture of how the croupier spun both the wheel and the ball.
The ball would almost always do between eighteen and twenty rotations. In particular, whenever the
croupier focused on the spin, it would be closer to eighteen full rotations. Oeufcoque calculated the
amount of time it took from the ball’s release to when it first started dipping, all the while computing the
odds that it would hit a particular pin and the angle at which it was most likely to hit the bowl.
There were three key factors involved in the spin. Three states: the numbers were easily visible, or
they could just be made out when following them around, or they were blurred beyond perception. After
watching a number of full spins, Balot and Oeufcoque found they could work out the point at which one
state transitioned to another.
It wasn’t an easy task to pinpoint it exactly—but it was absolutely essential if Oeufcoque and Balot
were to stand a chance in predicting the croupier’s habits.
All the while, numbers were appearing inside the glove on Balot’s right hand.
Oeufcoque’s magic numbers.
The numbers contained in each of the eight segments of the wheel, divided according to the positions
of the pins. Each segment was given a name, and the idea was to accurately predict the path of the ball as
it bounced fromone segment to another.
First there was North Side: 25-29-12-8.
Then North East: 19-31-18-6-21.
Followed by East Side: 14-2-0-28-9,
South East: 14-2-0-28-9,
South Side: 26-30-11-7,
South West: 20-32-17-5-22,
West Side: 34-15-3-24-36,
and North West: 13-1-00-27-10.
There was a fine line between success and total failure, and the difference would come down to
whether they were able to determine, in an instant, which segment the ball was heading for.
This was where Oeufcoque really came into his own.
Every time the ball fell, he could highlight in an instant which segment it would hit.
Furthermore, this was hardly cheating. Any player was allowed to have a crib sheet at the table with
them, showing the arrangement of the numbers. Indeed, it was fair to say it was standard practice among
regulars.
You could even buy official guide sheets containing such information—and much more besides—at the
casino’s own kiosks or in the hotel lobby.
The question was not whether you were allowed this information, but whether you could you use it
quickly and accurately enough for it to be useful.
And could you then go on to use that information to work out how the angle of the ball—as it
ricocheted off the pins—would vary according to when and how the ball and wheel were spun.
The table was divided into four blocks, and if, for example, 00 (in block A) was at position B when
the ball started to fall, you were talking about a spin of roughly ninety degrees, or one quarter of a full
rotation of the wheel.
Oeufcoque was able to perform complex calculations to cut out the intermediary steps and focus on
just the crucial factor: the point in the rotation at which the ball would fall into the wheel.
When Bell Wing put her mind to it, this was at the point of a full rotation: 360 degrees. Otherwise, it
was almost always around the ninety-degree mark.
There were some variations in results, of course. But these outcomes were because Bell Wing was
deliberately manipulating the spin. Oeufcoque could tell this because these were the only times when the
ball seemed to move with a different sort of motive than usual. The motive being to deliberately inject
some variety into the figures.
The better the croupier, the more constant the spin and therefore the easier it was for the numbers to
start falling into a predictable pattern. That was why the croupiers were under strict orders fromthe house
to ensure that there were deliberate variations in the number of rotations, the speed of the wheel, and the
angle at which the ball hit the wheel.
Hardly any croupiers were skilled enough to do this with 100 percent accuracy when customers were
around and the chips were down. Still, Bell Wing was exceedingly precise. Balot found it somewhat
ironic, therefore, that it was the croupier’s very accuracy and precision that allowed Oeufcoque to pick
up on her movements and intentions. In other words, it was precisely because Bell Wing was so skilled
that Oeufcoque was able to get the measure of her game so quickly.
Normally it would have taken even the most experienced professional many hours and tens of
thousands of dollars in bets before they had a chance of working out what Balot and Oeufcoque had
already managed to learn.
Balot succeeded because of the intense training she’d had fromthe Doctor and of course because she
had Oeufcoque in hand. It took her less than an hour and less than ten grand in bets. With this minimal
outlay of time and funds, Balot had learned all the biases of the wheel, the unconscious habits of the
croupier, and even the nature of the house orders—the fiat from on high that compelled croupiers to mix
things up a little.
Balot felt all this through her skin.
Step by step she raised the stakes and started betting on longer and longer odds.
She bet on the line—placing her chips over one of the lines on the layout, signifying a bet on all six
numbers down the line, with a payout of 5:1 when she won.
She placed a five-number bet on 0, 00, and numbers 1-3, payout 6:1.
She placed a corner bet; her chips down where four numbers intersected. Payout 8:1.
She bet on the street: three numbers—payout 11:1.
She went further, betting on longer and longer odds even if she didn’t win.
Split: betting on two numbers, payout 17:1.
Then back to the straight bet, the single number, payout 35:1.
She didn’t win these bets—they were reliant more on luck than skill at this stage. They were feints, for
the benefit of the croupier and the other punters.
On top of that there were other ways of betting. Regional variations to the rules, as seen in some
Continental casinos. Within Eggnog Blue, however, this particular table was the only place the variations
were seen—Bell Wing had no doubt persuaded the house to permit themat her table.
The permitted variations were threefold. One was finaal—a bet on the last digit. So, if the player
called “finaal plein three,” informing one of the dealers of his intentions, he’d be betting a hundred
dollars on numbers 3, 13, 23, and 33. This bet had a payout of between 8:1 and 11:1.
There was also the jeu zero. Playing on and around the 0, as the name suggested, this bet involved the
three numbers, totaling six, on either side: 35-14-2-0-28-9-26. Four hundred-dollar chips would pay out
thirty of the same if the ball landed on the 26, or if it landed on any of the other numbers. This bet, though,
was much more relevant on the Continental wheel layout and not much use here unless you were
particularly paranoid about the dealer aiming for the 0.
The third variation on standard rules was the en prison rule on evens bets, where a 0 would cause all
evens bets to be frozen rather than simply lost. The player would then have the option of either having half
their original bet back or letting it ride through to the next spin.
Balot exploited this rule to the fullest, and whenever she aimed for the 0 she also placed an evens bet
at the same time.
She did so to keep her losses to a minimum even as she moved to a more aggressive style of play, but
more importantly, to get some real clues as to the croupier’s mindset.
–Really impressive.
Suddenly, and for the first time since they had sat down at the table, Oeufcoque communicated in
words other than simple instructions.
–What is?
–You are.
–I am?
–I do believe we really have a chance. We could even end up with the money we need to move on to
the next level.
–That’s what I was aiming for all along. Was that wrong of me?
Balot felt rather insecure all of a sudden, but Oeufcoque a.s.suaged her feelings.
–No, just carry on the best you can. There’s not much I can do either way, at this stage.
Balot felt somewhat happier and snarced himagain.
–I just have this feeling that I know where the ball is going to land.
–You can predict it?
–More of a gut feeling.
Just then: “Is this your first time at roulette, young lady?” The voice came as one of the dealers was
distributing the table’s winnings after a spin.
Balot looked up at the speaker.
This time Bell Wing stared at her intently.
–Yes, ma’am, Balot answered truthfully. If Bell Wing glanced at Balot’s electronic voicebox around
her neck, she said nothing about it.
Instead, Bell Wing continued in a different vein. “Your eyes are sparkling. As if everything is new to
you. I can see that you’re enjoying watching the ball as it spins around.”
Balot nodded. This was how she actually felt, after all. She was genuinely getting into the game. But
there was another factor.
–I’m enjoying the game because you’re the croupier.
Bell Wing gave a small nod of acknowledgement. Thank you, she seemed to say. A generous gesture.
“Still, you’re planning something big, aren’t you?” said Bell Wing. “Have you got something against
this casino? A grudge?”
–Why do you saythat?
“It’s not me who’s saying it. It’s your chips.”
Reflexively Balot shot a glance down at her chips. Then she peered back up at Bell Wing. Balot
realized she had goose b.u.mps. Just as she had been reading Bell Wing and the table, Bell Wing had been
reading her.
How much had Bell Wing noticed? Everything, no doubt. Balot’s betting patterns, habits, personality.
Balot realized this and tried not to show it on her face.
“It’s the croupier’s job to read her customers’ minds by the way they bet.”
–It’s nothing personal against you, ma’am.
Balot’s reply was instant, and Bell Wing’s lips rose in a smile for the first time. “So why did you
choose my table?”
–Because I thought you were cool. Another immediate reply.
Bell Wing said nothing more and turned her hand back to the wheel.
Her eyes flashed.
Balot sensed that the croupier’s whole body wanted to move along with her eyes, to focus on a single
point. That single point was a number on the layout—the number that she would be aiming for next spin.
Two black. The first number that Balot had placed a chip on, and the win that she had been allowed.
Bell Wing’s hand moved for the ball. Balot’s hand moved in response. Balot’s chips came down as
the wheel was spun.
The ball was released, and it sped into the bowl in a smooth movement. The numbers melted into one,
and Balot realized that the angle of descent was going to be steeper than she had originally antic.i.p.ated.
Hastily Balot grabbed another chip to follow the ball, but the moment had pa.s.sed.
“No more bets.” A dignified voice stayed Balot’s hand.
Before long the wheel swallowed the ball. The rotation slowed down and then stopped completely.
“Three red,” Bell Wing called out calmly.
The dolly was placed on the layout, and chips were collected and distributed against the rustling
backdrop.
Balot’s five-hundred-dollar stake was swallowed up by the ocean of chips.
Again, Balot felt Bell Wing notice her, even if the croupier didn’t actually look at her this time.
Balot pursed her lips to show her disappointment. She was acting, of course. She did feel
disappointed, but it was hard to tell what was really the cause of her scowl.
Bell Wing’s movements had been a feint. She had noticed Balot’s observations and drawn her into
betting on the wrong number—a sophisticated ploy.
Bell Wing stood there calmly and asked Balot a question. She asked whether Balot still thought she
was “cool,” even after pulling a stunt such as this one. Balot couldn’t help smiling back.
Bell Wing responded to Balot’s smile with a cold gaze. “This is my job, you know.”
–I understand.
“There’s such a thing as a craftsman’s pride in doing your job properly. I have it. I also have a duty.
So I’m going to obstruct you. Don’t think that you won the first game because I was being kind to you. I
was just doing my job. Now that you know all this, don’t you think you’d be better off at another table?”
It was more than Balot had expected. Bell Wing had her number, completely, and didn’t care who
knew it. She had made her feelings clear: I have no intention of letting you win any more at this table
and will do everything I can to stop you.
Balot touched her choker with her hand to release her voice.
–I’d like to stay here and play a little longer, if that’s all right with you.
“Do you think that I’msomehow going to help you?”
–A game is a game. I’ll just learn from you as we go along.
“Learn fromme?”
Balot nodded. She found her own articulateness a little unexpected, but she continued.
–Yes. I don’t know what exactly. But I have a feeling that I’ll be able to pick up something
useful.
Bell Wing nodded. “Fine. If it means that much to you, I won’t try and stop you. But don’t say I didn’t
warn you. If your luck turns sinister, don’t expect any mercy.”
–Sinister?
But Bell Wing didn’t answer.
She turned back to the wheel and touched the bowl.
This woman, this wheel, this game—they were all so interesting. Balot was suddenly overwhelmed
by emotion. It was unstoppable. She had no idea where it would lead her.
–Take care, Balot, Oeufcoque warned her. For a moment she was concerned that Oeufcoque might try
and stop her, and she snarced himback vigorously.
–I’m going to play at this table and win. This is what I want.
–Your opponent is well attuned to your feelings at the moment. To your aggression. She’s
completely prepared for you.
–Aggression?
It was only when Oeufcoque spelled it out in so many words that Balot realized that aggression was,
indeed, the emotion that she was feeling.
She let go and saw her feelings dissipate into the ether. Bell Wing would have been able to use
Balot’s aggression to her advantage—just like she had with the 3 red a minute ago—and Balot knew it.
What Balot needed now was not aggression but certainty. Knowing where the ball would land with
certainty.
–I want to win this game. I won’t cause you anytrouble, I promise. Please. Let me do this.
–Our opponent’s feelings are dif icult to read. She smells as if she’s sure about something. But I
can’t tell what.
–I think I know what she’s sure of.
–What?
–She’s sure of the ball spinning.
Oeufcoque seemed bewildered.
–But I know the ball is spinning too…
The words rose up in Balot’s hands. Balot smiled.
Bell Wing turned the wheel of fortune and sent the ball forth like an arrow.
Balot felt like she had become some sort of a gun. Picking out the fateful numbers with her chips
would be just like honing in on her target in shooting practice. If her aim was off, she could adjust, take
stock, recalibrate, fire again, realigning fromleft to right until she finally found her target.
Balot placed her bets on North West: 13-1-00-27-10. Five hundred dollars on each number.
On top of that she placed another five hundred dollars on black.
The bowl swallowed the ball: 29 black.
Two places off.
Balot received her winnings on the five hundred she had on black and plowed this straight back into
the next hand.
For the next hand she bet on the North Side: 25-29-12-8, another five hundred dollars each. She also
placed five hundred each on two-way splits on 25-26, 29-30, and 11-12. And five hundred on red.
“Thirty red,” called Bell Wing.
A 17:1 payout on the split, and doubles on the red—Balot was looking at a total return of nine
thousand dollars. She was now up by over $2,200. She’d guessed the ball would be sent the other way
and had bet accordingly.
Balot watched the wheel as it spun around. She felt the difference in speed and angle with her skin.
Balot watched Bell Wing’s every move, chips gripped tightly in her hand.
The wheel was spun in the opposite direction to the previous spin and likewise the ball.
Balot’s hands moved.
Five hundred dollars each, speedily, on the South Side: 26-30-11-7.
Then another five hundred each on 28, 9, 20, and 32.
At this point the ball was on its fifth lap of the wheel. There was still over a minute before the game
would be over.
The ball went around another ten times, then fell into the bowl when the wheel slowed down.
Bell Wing’s eyes narrowed in an instant.
“Seventeen black.”
Four thousand dollars’ worth of Balot’s chips were swallowed whole by the table.
The crowd around the table was now starting to heat up. Any table would have done the same in the
face of such high stakes flying back and forth.
Bell Wing remained cool amid the excitement. She looked at the number Balot had bet on, and then
back at the roulette wheel.
Seventeen black was right next to 32 red—the last number that Balot had bet on.
Balot felt that she had just experienced Bell Wing’s skill at yet another level. Bell Wing had taken into
account the bias on the wheel and caused the ball to land right outside Balot’s chosen numbers.
Balot had no proof of this, of course, but she felt it—with certainty.
The ball was released. It was poetry in motion, sheer beauty, all of it: the form of the wheel, its build,
the angles, the elegant curvature of Bell Wing’s fingers, the rotating ball, the numbers spinning on the
wheel.
Balot lined her chips up with her fingers.
She placed five hundred dollars each on 14-2-0.
She didn’t feel the need to place any more.
The ball spun round, smooth, violent.
Bell Wing’s gaze followed Balot’s every movement, daggers in her eyes.
The ball bounced off against a pin and fell.
The wheel spun around, and by and by it showed the fateful number.
“Zero.”
The table erupted. Balot was the only person to have bet on 0. Everyone else either lost their stakes or
found themen prison.
Balot’s winnings, at 35:1, were stacked in front of her. Over fifteen thousand dollars’ worth.
“Your chips look like a giant pile of wood shavings, don’t they?” Bell Wing asked quietly.
Balot was worried that Bell Wing might be angry, but when she realized that Bell Wing was no such
thing she smiled at her.
“So, think you’ve got the measure of the wheel?”
Balot nodded.
–It’s verylevel.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Too level, in fact. Its only bias is luck.”
–Luck?
“To put it in terms of probability, it’s unlikely in the extreme that the ball will continue to fall in any
sort of predictable way, over time. Rather, you’ll be looking at an average distribution. It’s a struggle.
Fighting against Fortuna herself.” Bell Wing seemed to exercise her jaw, moving her chin from left to
right. “To a greater or lesser extent, all croupiers enjoy watching their customers crash and burn. Whether
they’re old or young, male or female, all people have this desire to dominate others. With croupiers, it’s a
particularly cunning sort of desire.” Bell Wing continued in a disinterested tone, yet her words seemed to
affect Balot deeply.
But your voice is so clear, Balot thought. How can you speak such depressing thoughts with such a
clear tone?
–Why does someone like you work in a casino like this?
Balot hadn’t meant to vocalize this, but the words had come out anyway.
“What do you know about this casino?”
Balot was silent. She wasn’t ready to pour her heart out and explain what she and Oeufcoque and the
Doctor were all doing at the casino, and she certainly didn’t want to talk about Sh.e.l.l and OctoberCorp.
“I see… You have a grudge against the boss.” Bell Wing’s eyes creased at the corners as she spoke.
Balot’s eyes, on the other hand, flew open.
“The manager of this casino doesn’t concern me. I needed money, so I took a job. My husband was ill,
you see. He wasn’t of our world—he was an honest man. Not that he wasn’t like me in many respects; he
had a cunning and greedy streak. Even so, all his children were left with when he died were his teachings
—and each other. He did well on that point, at least, taught them well. But it was left to me to bring the
money in.”
Bell Wing seemed as if she were about to bring the conversation to an end. But then, whether she
changed her mind or whether she was simply waiting for the two dealers to finish distributing the chips,
she continued. “After my husband died, I felt that everything was taking a turn for the sinister. So I did
what I had to in order to find a way of turning right. That’s why I ended up staying here, rolling the ball.”
–Sinister?
Balot asked the same question she had before.
Bell Wing averted her eyes from Balot. Balot thought that she was going to refuse to answer again, but
Bell Wing did speak, with her eyes fixed to the roulette wheel. “The wheel of fortune can spin two ways.
When it spins counterclockwise, to the left, it’s sinister. It brings bad luck. Clockwise, to the right, brings
joy. My life now is about trying to find what happiness I can by calling up the right.”
She sounded almost as if she were talking to the wheel.
Then she touched the wheel. She spun the numbers for another battle, and released the ball. The wheel
spun to the left, the ball to the right.
Balot picked up on the movements and grabbed her chips. She was ready to place her thousand-dollar
chips down, and she thought to herself that this was something that she had decided on for herself.
Oeufcoque had suggested they switch tables, and even Bell Wing had warned her to leave. Yet Balot had
stayed—it was what she wanted and what she valued.
It was just like when she was back at Paradise, when she took on the giant pool and all its attendant
risks in order to determine the whereabouts of Sh.e.l.l’s lost memories. Her choice.
Balot’s chips were placed on North West 13-1.
Straight bets, one thousand dollars on each.
Bell Wing looked at the ball as it spun around the circ.u.mference of the wheel, then closed her eyes.
“My luck seems to have taken a turn for the sinister again,” she said, her voice detached. “No more bets,”
she called out, her voice as clear and soft as ever.
The ball touched a pin, then fell to the right.
It hit the bowl that was spinning counterclockwise, slid over the dome, and was sucked in.
The atmosphere at the table was electric. The dealers could only stop and stare. They were like
market stallholders helplessly standing by during a riot, watching their shops being looted bare by the
angry crowds.
Bell Wing picked up the crystal. “One red,” she called.
The chips on the table seemed to dance around wildly before settling down in a single location: right
in front of Balot. A total of thirty-four thousand dollars after deductions.
Bell Wing watched the pile of chips with silent eyes.
–Could you please spin the wheel clockwise this time, ma’am?
Balot spoke.
Bell Wing lifted her gaze fromthe mountain of chips to Balot’s face.
–I’ll try and win again.
Balot spoke without arrogance, without pride. Just matter of fact. One of the dealers turned to Bell
Wing with a jolt when he heard this.
Bell Wing just stood up straight. “What’s your name?”
–Rune-Balot, ma’am.
“I’ll take note of it. I’mBell Wing.”
Balot nodded.
“I was just thinking how nice it would be to have a granddaughter just like you. All my grandchildren
are boys, you see.”
Balot was a little surprised at this sudden revelation. So, it seemed, were the other dealers at the
table.
Bell Wing continued. “If you ever feel like spinning the wheel for yourself, come and see me.
Whatever casino you like—just head for the best croupier there and say you want to become Bell Wing’s
apprentice. With a little bit of luck you might find I’ll teach you everything I know.”
No doubt the dealers who were working the table with her had never heard such words from her
before. They just stood there, slack-jawed, looking fromBell Wing’s face back to Balot’s.
–Thank you.
Balot answered, and Bell Wing’s eyes narrowed.
“Now, I’ll spin to the right.” Bell Wing waited for the previous round’s chips to be fully distributed,
then touched the wheel with the opposite hand frombefore.
That was the cue for the table to quiet down again. Bell Wing’s fingertips spun the cylinder ever so
softly. Clockwise, to the right. Balot watched, missing nothing.
Bell Wing did her job with a master craftsman’s pride. Like a prima donna taking to the stage.
And, in fact, this would be the last time Bell Wing would performat this casino.
“I’m just a Continental croupier, born and raised. From one of those small towns where everyone
worked either at the casino, the golf course, or the whiskey distillery.” Bell Wing was murmuring now.
“And do you know what? I think I’d like to carry on plying my trade for some time to come. Maybe in a
casino with a better atmosphere.”
Balot placed her chips as she listened to the words being spoken. All on one number. She felt no
inclination to bet on any other number or add any more chips to the pile. The crowd around the table
responded immediately to the ten thousand dollar bet she had placed. The number she had laid her bet on
was inundated with various hues of chips, like ants to sugar.
“Rune-Balot,” Bell Wing called.
–Yes, ma’am.
“Keep on striving to ensure your luck turns to the right.”
–Yes, ma’am.
“Don’t fret too much about it. It’s just like striving toward womanhood.”
–What do I need to do?
“Be where you need to be, when you need to be there. Wear the clothes you need to wear, say the
words you need to say, have the right hairstyle, the right jewelry. Womanhood and luck are essentially the
same thing. The better you are at riding your own luck, the more of a woman you’ll become. Make your
luck turn to the right.”
She spoke calmly, and by the end of her speech the ball was starting to slacken.
“No more bets.” Bell Wing’s voice echoed clearly.
The ball, moving to the left, hit a pin.
The blur of the wheel was starting to slow, and that which had been an indistinct ma.s.s now separated
out into individual numbers.
The ball found its way home into the bowl, toward the pocket, its final destination. From
counterclockwise to clockwise. Or so it seemed to Balot.
A roar went up at the table.
Bell Wing cut across the noise with the crystal in her hand.
“Two black.”
As she called out the result, she placed the dolly right next to the pile of acc.u.mulated chips; there
wasn’t even s.p.a.ce on the layout anymore. The whole table was cheering as if they had hit the jackpot on
the slots and won one of the luxury cars. Chips clattered all around, but Bell Wing’s voice still cut clearly
across the hubbub of the celebrating crowd.
“I couldn’t see it,” she said, looking at Balot. “Which way is it turning?”
Balot looked at the three-hundred-something-thousand-dollar payout in front of her and answered.
–If you’re talking about myluck, I think it’s turning to the right, ma’am.
Quietly, Bell Wing nodded. “Now, it’s time for you to go. This table’s dead to you now, and to me
too, for that matter. You’ve just experienced the last game Bell Wing will ever run at this casino.” She
looked straight at Balot as she said this, calmand collected to the end.
One of the other dealers stood behind Bell Wing, distributing the table’s winnings. The dealer that had
just listened in on their conversation. Dealers from the other tables gathered around, and one of them took
over at what had been, up until that moment, Bell Wing’s roulette table.
Bell Wing stood up straight and walked coolly away fromthe table.
02
–The woman paid out on your straight bets time after time. All she has to look forward to is a
reprimand from the pit boss, followed by a formal inquiry, Oeufcoque said as Balot left the table, arms
full of chips.
–Will she lose her job, do you think? Because of us?
–She could. Not that she seemed that bothered by it, though. In fact, I smelled a sort of liberated
feeling coming from her. She’s probably used to this sort of situation.
–Used to it?
As soon as Balot heard the words she looked up to see if she could see Bell Wing. It wasn’t a very
nice thing to be used to, surely. It was a sad thought.
Oeufcoque picked up on Balot’s feelings.
–Bell Wing is one of the best croupiers in the business. She’ll be all right. We can worry about her
all we like, but it’s not going to help her one bit, and in any case she won’t want our sympathy … It
seemed that Oeufcoque was speaking in order to try and comfort Balot, but then he suddenly changed
tack.–In any case, the numbers that she spun were looking rightward, weren’t they? Oeufcoque spoke
tentatively, as if he didn’t really understand the concepts that the two women had been discussing.
–I think so.
–Well, it’s up to us to do our job now. She’s certainly done hers.
Finally Balot seemed convinced, and she nodded.
Just at that moment she felt someone approach her from behind. She spun around to find the Doctor
grinning at her.
“Well, well, somebody’s made quite an impression!” the Doctor said, smiling broadly.
–I’m sorry.
“No, no.” The Doctor shook his head. Very politely. It seemed that the Doctor knew exactly just how
many chips Balot had won. “It was about time we ramped things up a notch and got ready for the real fight
anyway. Let’s get serious. Having said that—” the Doctor paused, indicating his surroundings with a
subtle gesture—“I’m sure that quite a few of these people looking at you want to come up and
congratulate you, maybe learn your secret. Probably best we make tracks.”
Balot realized that all eyes were on her. The dealers and the pit bosses, who looked at her warily, and
the other punters, who mainly just seemed fascinated by her.
“They’re not people you particularly want to meet, trust me on this one,” the Doctor said, walking off
toward reception. “Some of them will be professional gamblers who want to recruit you into their gang,
and others will just be angling for secrets on making a quick buck. We need to play it cool.”
Balot followed after the Doctor silently. The chips were c.h.i.n.king inside the basket she held to her
chest. Eyes all around the roomwere following the basket of chips—and Balot. They wanted both.
–I’m confident that I’d be able to win all we need at roulette, Balot said, as if to distract herself
fromall the unwanted attention.
–Even if millions were at stake, I’d still get it right.
“I’msure you would, but that wouldn’t help us reach our goal one bit.” It was Oeufcoque who replied.
Her partner was as sensitive as ever to her feelings. “The croupiers in charge aren’t idiots. They’d just
change the wheel’s spin to make it impossible for even you to predict, or they might even use a special
machine if they thought they needed to do so in order to bring you down.”
–But…
“In any case, we can’t get hold of the chips that we need from a roulette table, however many piles of
chips we win. We’re not professionals out to win big from the casino. We have to remember that we’re
here for a legitimate reason: Scramble 09.”
–Okay…
Balot felt the tension and worry dissipate fromher body. She understood.
The one thing that Balot was never likely to get used to was other people seeing her as an object of
convenience. She’d do everything she could to avoid this, close her eyes, shut away the world.
But what if even Oeufcoque and the Doctor saw her as a useful object?
When would they start treating her as one? The moment must come eventually, and she was so terrified
of it that she wanted to disappear fromthe two forever.
Why was she suddenly thinking like this? Was it because she had just met an extraordinary woman in
Bell Wing? The thoughts swirled around Balot’s mind. Balot was a long way off from having the sort of
composure you needed to be able to walk away from a table, unperturbed that you had just been beaten,
just as Bell Wing had done a minute ago.
She also lacked the sort of compa.s.sion that Oeufcoque had—if she’d been abused so roughly by her
user, she doubted whether she could be so understanding as to come back and work in the hands of her
erstwhile abuser.
She was thinking about all this at reception while she had her chips changed into more manageable
denominations, when the Doctor said something to her out of the blue.
“So, it looks like you make that sort of face too.”
Balot had no idea what he was talking about. She looked up.
“I’mtalking about your face when you were locked in your battle with the croupier back there.”
–What do you mean?
Balot’s face turned sour.
“You had a sharp, fearsome look about you. Almost as if you didn’t need us anymore. Now I know I
made the right decision in bringing you here.” He pa.s.sed Balot the basket full of ten-thousand-dollar
chips, her stash.
While Balot was trying to work out what he meant, the Doctor took off toward the box bar. He peered
this way and that, whistling at the more impressive games, every inch the hooked gambler. It was hard to
tell whether it was an act anymore.
Balot trailed behind him, and they sat down in a semi-private box booth, shielded by black screens.
One that you could sit in regardless of the games going on either side.
“What do you want to drink?” the Doctor asked. Balot pointed at the menu. The Doctor ordered for
both of them using the microphone built into the table. When he finished ordering it was Balot’s turn to
ask a question.
–What do you mean by a fearsome look?
“Hmm?”
–Myface—when I was playing roulette.
“Uh. What’s the best way to put it…”
–You were looking at something that only you could see, interjected Oeufcoque through the
microphone.
–I don’t understand.
–I think the Doctor’s getting a little bit concerned that as you start to realize your full potential,
we’ll become increasingly redundant, until finally we’re out of a job.
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, half in jest. As if to say That wouldn’t actually be so bad.
At that point a waitress came carrying a tray with two gla.s.ses. The Doctor tipped her generously and
winked. Every bit the accomplished player. The waitress placed the tip into her cleavage and sauntered
away, giving the Doctor a generous shake of her derriere as his reward.
Balot watched this scene play out—what else could she do?—and then replied with her honest
reaction to Oeufcoque’s words.
–It’d be a terrible thing if you two disappeared from mylife right now.
She wasn’t saying this to be nice or to suck up to them.
The Doctor picked up his gla.s.s and smiled. “Well, I should hope so. If we were dispensable, we’d be
pretty useless as Scramble 09 Trustees. We’d be disposed of immediately, or at the very least thrown
straight in the slammer.”
–So what did Oeufcoque mean just then by “redundant”?
“Well, you do have the right, you know. Whenever you like. The right to fire us and hire a different set
of Trustees. All you have to do is head on over to the Broilerhouse and just say the word. You could even
use some of your war chest that you’ve just won to hire our replacements.”
–Why would I want to do a thing like that?
“Don’t you want to?”
Balot’s shoulders sagged. Why were the Doctor and Oeufcoque being like this? It was completely
different from earlier. She had no idea what was going on, how to read the situation. It was like the time
she was suddenly told goodbye without any warning…
–Why?
“Well, from our point of view we’d rather you didn’t, of course. That’s why we appeal to our
usefulness—we think we’re the best in the business, and we have to prove it to you.”
Balot nodded. It was what they were doing.
“You’re a Concerned Party in this case,” continued the Doctor.
Balot nodded again.
“You’ve hired us to fight an injustice committed against you and to bring the offenders to heel.”
She nodded a third time.
“And now you’ve taken it upon yourself to solve the case on your own.”
This time, Balot didn’t nod. She wondered whether this was all because she had just won so much at
roulette. Had she angered the Doctor and Oeufcoque without even realizing it? As she thought this, she
was overcome by a wave of desolation. All expression drained from her face, and she withdrew into her
sh.e.l.l, staring at the Doctor frominside her husk.
–You’re starting to wake up to your own potential. That’s all the Doctor is trying to say , said
Oeufcoque. The words jolted her out of her stupor, and she squeezed both hands tightly.
–The Doctor didn’t see you in action back at the hideaway, with all your incredible marksmanship.
This is the first time he’s seen you in your full glory. He feels a sense of responsibility for what you’ve
become, explained Oeufcoque.
–Responsibility?
–Say if you were to start using your abilities for selfish reasons. The Doctor would be obligated to
freeze your abilities, and he’d be taken of your case whether he liked it or not.
Balot’s hair stood on end. She felt cold all over. This was the first time that Oeufcoque had alluded to
the incident in which she had abused him so—the first time she felt she was being properly admonished.
Balot stared at her hands—at Oeufcoque.
But.
–Don’t worry. You’ll develop, and learn , Oeufcoque said, as if he were gently easing Balot’s guilty
conscience by taking it upon himself.–You’ll discover and then master your abilities at a rate that will
leave the Doctor and me trailing far behind you. There will be times when something is impossible for
us but possible for you. The only thing we’re concerned about is that you don’t get burnt out along the
way.
–Burnt out?
–We’re now moving into the final phase of our plan vis-a-vis this casino , said Oeufcoque, his voice
stern.–All the Doctor and I can do is our best, to the limits of our abilities. Your job is to make it so
that we can do what we couldn’t do without you.
“Don’t worry—it’ll be perfectly possible,” added the Doctor. Balot looked up from her hands. “Or
rather, there will come a point when it will be possible for you to do it. The question is not if, but when.
And, more importantly, how you’ll feel when the moment comes. Which way will your feet be pointing?”
–That’s what you mean by “burnt out”?
“Yes—that’s human psychology for you. What will you do once you have the proof we need to arrest
Sh.e.l.l? If you’re too involved, too burnt out, you might feel reluctant to press the advantage, and that could
ruin everything.”
Balot’s brows knitted again. Not that she felt bad in any way. She felt that she owed these two
something. An apology for thinking that it was they who wanted to use her, perhaps. She realized that it
was just her own guilty conscience that had been putting these sorts of thoughts in her mind.
–Do you think I’d suddenly go all soft on you? It’s me we’re talking about here.
“Well, sure, but…” The Doctor stuck his lower lip out, and his sentence trailed away into a mumble.
–I think I’m burnt out through and through.
Balot’s face had turned harsh without her realizing it.
–So I think that once I start running, I’m not going to be able to stop. But I really don’t want to
cause you two anytrouble. Do you think we should leave it here?
“What’s your ultimate goal?” The Doctor answered her question with one of his own.
Balot thought as she stared at her gla.s.s of cinnamonade. What she wanted was simple enough. But
what it meant was something altogether different, and she wasn’t sure if she could put it into words.
–It’s just as I said to Tweedledee and the others.
Eventually she took her eyes off the gla.s.s.
–To Professor Faceman too. When I left Paradise. I told them that I needed to solve my own
case. That’s what I feel, anyway. I won’t be able to live anywhere properly unless I do so. That’s why
I need Sh.e.l.l’s past…
Suddenly Balot felt cold again. Not just her skin this time, though. In her gut too. She realized that she
wanted to kill. She understood this clearly, for the first time. Or rather, the Doctor and Oeufcoque had
made her understand.
–It’s quite possible that when you achieve your goal, someone else will be destroyed by it,
Oeufcoque added, quietly.
–He could have his basic human rights and a.s.sets frozen and lose his liberty for a very long time.
More than one of the people we’ve sent to prison have tried to take their own lives. Of course, there
have been others who were made of sterner stuf , recidivists who come out after their sentence and
carry on as before. But even those have lost a part of themselves to us. Were they burnt out? Hard to
say. The Doctor and I carry our own burdens too, of course. Now—we chose our paths, however
reluctantly. This means that there are things that we can do. But it also means that there are things
that we can’t do.
–I’m not sure what you’re saying. That I need to toughen up and be ruthless? Is that what I need
to do if I want to achieve my goal?
–Exactly. You need to accept, to embrace, your own ruthlessness. Just as Bell Wing was
comfortable in admitting her own ruthless cunning streak. If you can’t do this, you might just be better
of accepting that you’re an of ender against Commonwealth laws…
“Oi, Oeufcoque. I wasn’t trying to make her feel that responsible…” said the Doctor.
–At her age, seven generations of my species would have come and gone. She’s plenty old enough
to handle the responsibility, said Oeufcoque.
“Come on, you know that of all mammals, humans take the longest to mature to adulthood. It’s not as if
she was born a fully formed adult like you were. Give her a break…”
–But I think that this is the game Sh.e.l.l is playing.
Balot interrupted their argument.
–So I think it’s just a question of whether I’m prepared to play along. It’s the only game left in
town. I don’t think I could give it up now, even if that would somehow make everyone happy.
The moment she finished speaking, Balot felt incredibly small. Ineffectual, weak, and self-conscious,
that was all she was.
So what? A beating fromthe depth of her heart. The ability that she had now was only a fraction of her
true potential. What she had now was just a crutch, something to help her propel herself toward her
ultimate goal by hook or by crook. Calm descended on her as she realized this. It was as if she had just
had her eyes opened to something that should have been glaringly obvious all along.
–At the veryleast I’d like to use up all the chips I have at the moment and see how far this takes
us.
She spoke without bravado, but with plain confidence.
“Bravo,” said the Doctor. His eyes were looking at Balot’s hands. At Oeufcoque, who was contained
inside them.
“That’s pretty impressive, in our line of work. Isn’t it, Oeufcoque? Balot’s coming up with her own
sense of values and pushing themto the limit.”
Then words that Balot didn’t really understand. “You should really try and be a little more honest with
yourself, Balot. You’ll find it easier in the long run.”
–She’s doing her best already, said Oeufcoque. He seemed a little disgruntled.
“Well, from here on out it’s nonstop,” said the Doctor. “We have to win, no matter what. No turning
back.”
Balot nodded. She felt as if her heart were about to burst with grat.i.tude toward the pair.
She prayed that it would always be this way. That would be a real victory.
03
The moment the man appeared, the manager of the motel instinctively knew that resistance would be
futile.
There were security guards in the motel, of course, and the high-caliber shotgun under the counter was
fully loaded.
The manager knew that none of these precautions would be remotely effective, and that in any case the
man had the law on his side.
“Dimsdale-Boiled—I’ma PI and Trustee on a case.”
The manager had surrendered completely even before he was shown the official ID. Boiled exuded
pressure fromevery pore in his skin, and his mere presence was too much for the manager to take.
“I’ve already checked with the relevant taxi company. These people have been here, right?” As he
spoke, Boiled placed photos of a man and a girl on the counter with his ma.s.sive hands.
The manager definitely remembered themand had no intention of keeping this information back, no sir.
The only problem was that he didn’t have any idea when they had left their rooms. He had no idea that the
pair—who had just come from the airport in a gas-powered taxi, after all—would have changed their
appearances so quickly and headed out in a limousine. He though they would still be in their rooms. After
all, they both had the do not disturb sign displayed clearly on their doors, didn’t they?
“Show me their rooms,” said Boiled.
The manager swore with all his heart that he’d take full responsibility to find out which rooms they
were in and then to open the doors personally.
The first room that Boiled went into was the one that the Doctor had reserved. There was no sign of
life. The manager waited in the hall, twitching.
Boiled went over to the trunk that had been left open and started examining the contents as if he had
every right to do so.
He looked through the maps and bus tickets that the Doctor had undoubtedly prepared.
The map had a number of red crosses marked on it—destinations, evidently.
There were crosses on Sh.e.l.l’s apartment and the hotel that he ran.
Boiled exhibited no sign of emotion as he threw the map to one side.
Then he went to the roomthat Balot was supposed to be in. No one was there either.
She had hardly any luggage, only a few outfits that had been cast to one side, forsaken. She had a map
similar to the one in the Doctor’s room, and it too was covered in crosses. Boiled took one glance at it.
Suddenly his cell phone rang. He answered and was met by Sh.e.l.l’s voice.
–I’ve just seen the email you sent me last night. Not what I wanted to hear. And what the h.e.l.l do
you mean by “They escaped to an alt.i.tude of 15,000 feet”?
“A Floating Residence, military issue. It’s made of a fine, light alloy, and it’s under the jurisdiction
and protection of the Commonwealth,” explained Boiled calmly. “I figured there was a high probability
that they would be back on the ground by now, so I’ve been searching for them. They came to a motel via
the Broilerhouse. I’mat that motel right now.”
–And? They’re not there at this moment, I a.s.sume? Won’t they be coming back?
“They’re certainly not here now. They’ve left some clothing and maps.”
–Maps…?
“Maps with markings on them. Your apartment, the hotel where the woman involved in your
transaction is staying, that sort of thing.”
–What?
Sh.e.l.l seemed about to erupt, to rush after themin hot pursuit, but Boiled stopped him.
“A childish bluff. If they’d really intended to target your residences they wouldn’t have left their maps
lying around.”
–This is a nightmare, Boiled. I’m not talking metaphorically. An actual, factual nightmare. I see
her in my dreams, day in, day out. I’m being a.s.saulted by a girl I can’t even remember! She’s
destroying me!
“It won’t be long before I work out what they’re up to.”
Sh.e.l.l laughed when he heard Boiled’s words, spoken in an unchanging monotone. A laugh of relief.
–You know that I was planning on showing my father-in-lawto-be a good time at the casino later
today, right?
“Yes.”
–Well, I can’t show him the slightest sign that I’m worried about either the girl that should be dead
or her PIs. Nothing gets past my father-in-law—he’s a shrewd customer. So I’m completely
defenseless at the moment. If our enemies try something in front of us, we’re not even allowed to react,
because we have to show the world that we’re completely unconcerned by this case. That’s right, isn’t
it?
“Sure…” Then Boiled spotted something fromthe corner of his eye.
A small square card. Boiled leaned down to pick it up from the side of the bed, cell phone still to his
ear.
–I’m leaving it all to you. Do whatever you have to do to crush the girl and the PIs.
“I understand. But in order to do my job properly I need to work out what their aims are. In order to
make sure that I cover this fromevery angle, will you tell me what this key to your deal is—”
–Stop it, Boiled. Don’t you understand that I can’t tell you that? Not you, not anyone. The whole
point is that I’mthe only one who knows. If I tell you, that’s gone; the company has all sorts of ways of
finding it out, and I lose my edge.
“You know I have a duty of confidentiality to—”
–Listen to me carefully, Boiled: f.u.c.k right off. Your “duty of confidentiality,” as you put it, isn’t
worth s.h.i.t to me. This is my deal. The reason I’m going to be able to pull it of is because I’m doing it
alone. Can you manipulate the contents of your own mind? Can you break your memories into pieces
and use them as bargaining chips?
Boiled said nothing. He was looking over the object he had just picked up.
It was actually a rectangular piece of card. On the back there was a detailed grid. On the front, a table
of rows and columns of numbers.
–Anyhow. You do what you need to do, and you do it now. Got that?
“Understood.”
The call ended.
Boiled placed the cell phone back in his jacket pocket. Having lost interest in the room he headed
back out into the corridor.
The manager seemed visibly relieved to see that Boiled had finished, but then, “What’s this?” Boiled
asked. Surprised, the manager took it fromhis hands.
“Erm… I’m not entirely…” he leaned his head to one side and caught a glimpse of Boiled’s cold,
piercing gaze. “We could always, uh, ask some of our other staff.”
The manager returned to the front desk on the verge of a panic attack. Boiled used the time to call a
number of limo companies, collating data on all the cars that had recently been sent to the motel.
“We’ve, uh, worked out what it is, we think. It’s a crib sheet. One of the other employees here is quite
keen, you see…”
Boiled plucked the card fromthe manager’s fingers. “Crib sheet?”
“Yes, it has the odds of various hands for different card games, apparently. I couldn’t tell you in any
detail…”
“Odds…card games…” Boiled muttered. Then, decisively, “You’ve done well.” He thanked the
manager—if it could be called thanks—and headed straight out of the motel and into his car.
“Games…” His voice was heavy. He took another glance at the card before placing it in his pocket.
He drove off, turning the steering wheel sharply. There was a flicker of antic.i.p.ation in Boiled’s
otherwise blank gray eyes, and the car headed uptown into Mardock City.
≡
As the car sped down the freeway, Boiled thought about the conversation that he had had with
Faceman in Paradise. About violence, curiosity, and the value of life—it echoed all around before
dissipating.
When had he lost his consideration for life? It must have been just after he joined the army.
Or was it when he was recognized as one of the best soldiers in his cla.s.s and a.s.signed to the fighter
planes?
Either way, there was no doubt that one of the defining points in his life was shortly after the formation
of the Airborne Division—the air raid designed to inflict a decisive killer blow on the Continent. Instead,
Boiled made a mistake that ended up blowing his own life wide open.
He tried to remember what that moment had been like. How he had felt at that instant.
The moment he realized that he had just dropped half a ton of high-explosive incendiary bombs on
troops on his own side.
Friendly fire, it had been called. The people that he had called his comrades, his friends—vaporized
in an instant. Boiled was shielded from the media frenzy that ensued—he wasn’t named personally, the
army made sure of that. But even the army couldn’t keep a lid on the disclosure of endemic drug addiction
among the ranks of the elite fighter pilots. The press had a field day.
Not that it had been anything other than an open secret in the first place. In particular, it was common
knowledge among the top bra.s.s. It was even seen as part of a fifty-year-long tradition, if not a particularly
proud one. Stimulants were all but officially prescribed.
Indeed, it was one of these “officially prescribed” stimulants that Boiled was dosed up on the day of
that fateful friendly fire.
Dextroamphetamine—amphetamines, or possibly dexedrine.
They stimulated your central nervous system, dispelled fatigue, and focused your mind and improved
your reflexes. They were legitimate drugs with legitimate medicinal uses.
But the media didn’t refer to these drugs by their scientific names. They used more prosaic terms.
Speed. Uppers. Pep pills.
These were prescribed as a matter of course to tired and nervous pilots on night raids. It was the
obvious thing to do. It would practically have been wrong not to.
They accelerated your brain function, revved up your metabolism, made all your aches and pains fade
away.
Time for R&R…
And made Boiled kill his comrades.
I’m due twelve hours of rest—no, make it six. As long as I can have…
Back then, Boiled had complained of fatigue to his commander. He was only asking for his due—
adequate rest time in between strenuous missions. His commander’s response was that he should ask the
army doctor for medicine that made himwant to do his duty. Boiled did so. Then he went back in the sky
and dropped the 500-kilogram payload on his target, with deadly accuracy, from a height of ten thousand
feet. Thinking that the flashing light that signified “friend” meant “foe.”
Eight dead, fourteen wounded. The survivors were so horrifically maimed that they would never be
able to find a job back in civilian society, let alone continue in the army. It was literally friendly fire: men
he had ate with, fought with, slept alongside. Some of themwere the ones who had celebrated with Boiled
when he won his coveted place in the elite Airborne Division. They’d shared his joy, selflessly, without a
trace of envy or jealousy. And when Boiled had the opportunity—the duty—to clear a path for his friends
and comrades, to make their job easier by taking out the enemy they were advancing toward, he did
exactly the opposite.
After the incident, Boiled was moved to the place where all soldiers with the “distinguished but
dangerous” mark on their files were sent and had his options laid out in front of him.
It was a Hobson’s choice: transfer to the Experimental Strategic s.p.a.ce Corps, P7 for short, designed
to pioneer high-alt.i.tude combat at ten thousand feet and above. Ridiculous by name, ridiculous by nature.
Or be discharged.
At first Boiled had been prepared to accept a discharge. But then he thought of the life that would be
waiting outside the army: no proper job, nothing but days of loneliness and endless guilt.
Furthermore, the side effects of the amphetamines were tearing up Boiled’s body at an alarming rate.
Boiled knew all too well w