by J. D. Brink
It’s just the natural way of things.
Generally speaking, this same philosophy can apply to the entire universe, not just the Nine Seas of Trident’s Fury. But off-worlders usually have trouble accepting this point of view, especially those loyal to bureaucracy and money. They believe in man-made systems and their inherent right to own everything that falls under their squinty fields of vision. They seem to think that all the fish in the sea belong to them.
We Tridents don’t see things that way.
I guess that makes us “backward.”
There is a second part to the saying, however.
Most times, those three words—Everything eats fish—express our meaning and acceptance of it. But when it comes down to you or me, the shark or the sharker, when it’s eat the fish or be eaten by one, we add the second part: but I have the harpoon today.
I understand the shark wants to eat me, and that’s all well and good for her, but I ain’t going down its gullet without a fight.
We wasted no time getting our men out of the brine that day. The scarlet seasoning in the water would draw another shark before long.
Once all the swimmers were secure, the fishermen on deck lowered the hoists so me and my mates could haul up our trophy. It was a victory for the whole crew of The Captain’s Daughter, but I’d be the harpooner whose chapped, callused hand would receive the skipper’s coin.
That big golden disk felt cool on my palm, as would the big frothy mugs it would buy.
Unfortunately for me and my shipmates—for my whole damn planet—the expedition for the bottom of that bottomless mug wouldn’t get very far. And the shark would end up being the least dangerous creature trying to take a bite out of me that night.
There had been more than one evil omen, after all.
Part Four
Snake Eyes
Snake Eyes
Darkness. Nothing but cramped, jostling darkness.
Bang.
One of the lugs carrying my box drops his end. My head bounces off the wooden interior and some unseen piece of gear slides up and hits my face in a big hurry.
The other guy, the one carrying my feet, cusses at his clumsy friend.
They don’t know I’m in here. They don’t know the coffin-like crate they’re loading onto the truck is not only packed with theatre props and costumes, but also with a real live person.
Live for now, anyway.
If this job goes well—extremely well—I’ll still be alive a few hours from now, but the odds are against me.
Traditionally, rolling up double-ones in a game of craps is called “snake eyes.” It means you lose. Game over.
Professionally, it’s my moniker: Snake Eyes.
I’ve even gone so far as to have my eyelids tattooed: cute little cubes displaying a single dot on each. When I blink, my “clients” get to see what they’ve rolled.
And if I roll up on you, you lose.
Game over.
Irony, then. Maybe that’s what attracted my current employers into hiring me. Maybe they wanted their revenge to come with a smirk, a little side of humor that sends the Gambler to his grave.
Or, more likely, they figured universal irony was the only way to beat his cosmic cheat, to lever the odds in death’s favor. The only way to kill a man who has Lady Luck bound and gagged in his hip pocket.
They call him the Gambler.
The city at large knows him as Marco Romero. He’s a self-made millionaire, a big man about town.
Seven years ago, he was a habitual loser.
Then his luck changed. Suddenly he was winning, big. So big that the bad men in charge of such things tried to get rid of him.
But only half-heartedly, really. They didn’t see Romero as a threat then, just a cheat. He’d breeze into their casinos, clean up at the tables, and strut home with his pockets full of their cash and a pretty young girl on his arm.
Same story, over and over again.
They figured he was cheating, but no one knew how. And no one would have imagined the truth.
That he was cheating the odds in a cosmic way, a way no one saw coming.
So they didn’t see his rise to power coming, either. Pretty soon, the men in charge weren’t in charge anymore. Romero had walked away with enough of their money that he started horning in on their influence, too.
Today, Romero owns the game in this town and sits at the head of all tables.
But in less polite company, they still call him “the Gambler.”
And, they say, it’s time to change his luck.
Time to bring in Snake Eyes.
Me and my box get loaded onto a truck. The jerkwads doing the work pay no heed to the “this end up” markings. I can hear them cussing about the weight as they heft me off the dock and fit me in among the rest of their cargo. Set pieces for the opera house, I’d wager.
Then they prop me on my head.
The blood rushes down, along with all my gear. My face gets heavy and brain starts swimming. My neck is wrenched between the floor and the rigid armor vest I’m wearing. There’s barely enough room for me to shove my arms out from the cross-the-chest position into performing an upside-down push-up. This gives me a little relief, but not enough. Can’t hold this pose forever.
“Screw this,” I grumble.
I shift my hips side to side, back and forth. The motion is small at first, but builds with momentum even in this confined space. The blood flooding my brain shifts along with my hips as the truck takes a corner too fast.
Bang.
Lucky break. My box slides off whatever it’s propped against and crashes into the outer wall. Not enough to level me out, but it’s way better than standing on my head.
I hope the noise is enough to make the boys nervous. Make them wonder if they just damaged Mr. Romero’s precious cargo. That wouldn’t do, especially on opening night.
Eventually, no matter how cold or calculating a man is, someone gets their claws into him. Usually it’s a woman. Sometimes it’s another man, though. Love ain’t picky that way. It doesn’t care about tastes, so long as it gets its hook in you one way or another.
Hell, even I’ve been through it. That was way back, though, and has no bearing on the present. (Or maybe it does. If I’m honest with myself, losing Renee might be why I don’t mind shooting dice with Death on as rigged a game as this one.)
Anyway, one of those gold-digging casino girls finally dug deep enough to penetrate Romero’s strongest vault. An actress, with big dreams. And she found a man with enough wealth and power to make her dreams come true. The opera house exists because of her.
The Bacchanal Opera House is an extravagant work of architectural decadence. A beautiful monstrosity nestled in among gaudy casinos and towering hotels that just try too hard. It’s a gemstone that brings class to this town, a perfect pearl set in costume jewelry.
A reminder to those who hired me that someone took what was theirs and then had the gall to spend it on love and the arts rather than... whatever the hell gangsters waste all their ill-gotten gains on.
Another reason for their jealousy, I suppose.
Tonight is opening night at the Bacchanal. Mrs. Romero is playing the lead, of course, while her husband looks on approvingly from the king’s balcony. I’m to be delivered to an upstairs prop room. From there I’ll find my sniper’s nest. Then, to use an old cliché, the final curtain will fall. Either on the Gambler or on myself. The unluckier of us, or possibly the luckier. Chance will play a bigger part in all this than I ever thought possible.
You see, the Gambler built his success on a piece of science fiction. An experimental bit of technology rumored to be on the drawing board at about the same time he somehow ended up with it. Who knows how he got it: stole it, bought it, volunteered to test it?
Really, I bet that’s it. He’d have been a great candidate for lab rat on this particular device—the chronic loser. If a gambler of his piss poor quality could turn his luck with a gadget like that, it’d pr
ove the box worked.
Did he off the mad scientist after that? Figured all his troubles were over and decided to keep the miracle machine and just cut all the entanglements that came along with it?
The lucky rabbit’s foot, the four-leaf clover, the magic box, it’s called a “probability field generator.” A cosmic cheat, like I said. It turns mathematicians into raving lunatics. The way a magnetic field pulls metal its own way, this thing twists the odds in its favor. All odds. If anything is possible, this gadget goes so far as to make them likely. It’s a gold bracelet for Lady Luck, diamond earrings for the Fates; it buys their favor. A dog whistle that brings the three-headed hound Cerberus to heel.
Sounds far-fetched, eh? Not likely, or even possible? Then again, “not likely” gets twisted onto its head by this sort of thing, so it might just be true.
If it is for real, how the hell do I beat it? How do I kill a man with Lady Luck and all the invisible forces of the universe wrapped around him like a protective black hole?
Well, that’s the craziest part.
Like I said, may the luckier man win.
I am delivered—just a bit worse for wear—to the opera house. The coffin-like container I’m hiding in, along with the other set pieces and equipment in the shipment, aren’t intended for tonight’s performance. Instead, they’re donations from mysterious parties with a professed love of the arts, articles to be used for the opera house’s next big show, Pagliacci. That’s the one with the sad, jealous clown who kills his wife on stage.
So, when in Rome, right? All the world’s a stage and all that? On a crazy caper like this one, why not dress the part? Why not go with a flair for the dramatic?
I’m decked out in the white ruffles, conical hat, and frowny face paint of the tragic clown. A phantom to haunt this monstrous opera house. The whole look is hindered by my armored vest, shoulder-slung rifle, and other various instruments of death, but what the hell? It’s the thought that counts.
After I’m unloaded from the truck and set none-too-gently onto a floor somewhere, I allow some time to pass. Which isn’t easy, as I’ve already been buried alive in this box for hours now. But I listen for a while and, once I’m convinced the place is empty, I open up.
The room is dimly lit by hallway light shining in beneath the door. And other than me and my fellow crates, it’s pretty much empty. An attic of secrets. I shove a wedge under the door to keep out the uninvited, then flip on the lights and gear up.
Another waiting game follows. This job has more down time than most. And more risk. Much more. But the payoff will be good. If I get to it.
Finally: cue the music. It’s extra loud from the backside of the stage. Thunderous applause joins in. Tonight’s show has begun.
The Bacchanal’s opening play is Tristan and Isolde. A tragic love story. Ironically, it includes travel from afar aboard a cramped ship and drinking some poison. Although, in the play, the poison turns out to be a love potion.
I eyeball the vial in my possession. It’s a small glass tube, almost as long as my finger, filled with a slick, clear fluid. This is definitely not a love potion. If it were in a heart-shaped bottle, of course, I might wonder.
Take a deep breath.
Pop the rubber stopper.
Take a whiff. Smells faintly of vanilla and freshly cut grass.
It would taste like it too, if the mower were leaking fuel all over the yard. I choke it down in a single gulp, trying to avoid my tongue, but I taste it all the same. No escaping it. The nasty shit seems to crawl back up my throat, even, like it’s trying to give me a second chance to reconsider this course of action. But it’s too late.
No turning back now.
With my rifle across my back, sidearm holstered on the right, grapple gun on the left, and chest-mounted surprises primed for use, it’s time for my big scene.
I stick to the shadows, creeping along backstage. No one’s looking for me. Their attention is elsewhere, focused either on the actors, studying their scripts, or pulling that lever, cutting those lights.
One schmuck is singing the same opening line over and over under his breath when his eyes happen onto the scary clown. I’m pretty deep in the shadows and doubt he can make much out of me. Still, instinct makes me freeze for half a second. Then I smile, wave with twinkling fingers, and give him a wink. The armor-plated harlequin of ancient Rome, or wherever the hell we’re supposed to be right now. His face wrinkles up with confusion and a wee bit of disgust, and he goes about his business again, breathing out that line at five percent volume.
Two steps from there and I’m on the ladder, then up on the catwalk.
That grass-flavored battery acid surges in my throat again and reminds me that I’m now on a very strict timetable.
The narrow plank I’m walking sways slightly with each step. Lines connect it to the rafters above me and to miniature spotlights below me. Further down are the actors, dancing about and singing with everything they’ve got. I hear a strong female voice but don’t bother to look down. I assume that’s Mrs. Romero, but the venom at the back of my throat doesn’t give a damn who’s down there. I have more important things to do.
Nearly to the end of the suspended platform, I find the perfect spot. I can just see over the main curtain to the eastern wall of the theatre. Several tuxedos are seated there, one a somewhat chunky man with a white goatee and a proud smile on his face. Poor idiot. What a night for love.
And hate. Ironically, two more men seated very near him are also recognizable. A pair of the very fat cats who hired me for this job. I guess they wanted good seats for both shows.
And that’s good for me. One of them must be standing by with my antidote. So when I successfully close this deal, he can save my ass before said deal—and I—expire.
Left knee down, right knee up. Prop my firing elbow there. Rest the rifle on the rail.
I put the Gambler right in the sweet spot of my crosshairs.
And I don’t see any magic belt. No shimmer of force field, no lucky rabbit’s foot chained around his neck. No reason that squeezing this trigger shouldn’t blow his sternum all over the white dress and pearls of the pretty lady behind him.
So, I squeeze.
But nothing happens.
I try harder, but the gun refuses to go off.
So I jerk it this time, harder still.
Bang.
The damn thing jumps—didn’t think I’d jerked it that hard.
By the time I swing it back and get my eye to the scope again, I find that the Gambler is startled but unharmed. The asshole mafioso sitting next to him, however, grits his teeth and claws his chair arm for a moment longer before that bullet wound to the chest takes his life.
The balcony-goers stand and scream. The rest of the theatre hasn’t gotten the gist of things yet, but they’re about to.
Bang.
Another miss. I’m a bit spooked now, I admit, but I’ve never missed twice. This time it’s the woman in pearls—I clipped her bare shoulder. She’s thrown back into her seat, where she bleeds and wails with her opposite hand slapped over the wound.
I stand up now. Romero’s eye catches the movement. He looks right at me.
I pull the trigger.
Click.
Jam.
“Holy shit,” I mutter. “It’s real.”
The rifle tumbles away, falling thirty feet and smashing onto the stage. More screams, but I don’t think it landed on anyone. I’m too busy to notice.
My hands go to my hips. One pulls the sidearm, a .357 automatic, the other my grapple gun.
The talon launches with the pop and hiss of compressed gas, jets across the gulf of empty air, and finds purchase on the other side. I click the line onto the D-ring of my vest and jump for it.
Midair, I’m swinging down, dipping below the horizon of my firing line, right index finger firing one round after another. Blam. Blam. Blam. My other mafia employer explodes in a burst of red. The other shots hit nothing. All the while, the pe
nguin in tails and a white goatee—the Gambler—just stares on defiantly. His left hand clutches at something beneath his tux jacket: the magic box, no doubt. The probability whachamacallit.
The arc of my grapple line bottoms out and I’m on the up-swing, climbing in altitude now and getting closer to Romero. After a heartbeat to aim on this new bearing, my hand twitches to deliver more death. But somehow my thumb gets confused with my trigger finger and I accidentally drop the magazine. My thumb hits the release, freeing the clip full of lead rounds to freefall down toward the panicked theatre-goers below. Then my damn trigger finger finds itself again. The shot in the chamber goes high, followed by click-click.
I swing right up to the balcony, so stunned by my incredibly bad luck that I almost miss the moment needed to dismount. Then that missed moment gets suddenly more desperate: the grapple talon breaks free and the line goes slack.
I drop my now useless weapon and snatch at the brass rail, scrambling for it with both hands like a cat shoved off the edge of a bath tub.
I grab it, but just barely. For several quick heartbeats, I’m stuck there, clinging to the wrong side of that rail twenty feet above the floor. And Romero is just looking at me. Everyone around and behind him is running and screaming their damned heads off, but he isn’t moving. In fact, I’m more spooked than he is right now, and he knows it. All he has to do is step forward and peel my fingers free, or punch me in the face, and I’ll drop into the cheap seats. If the fall doesn’t kill me, the poison soon will.
But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he offers a little smirk. He eyes me up and down as I hang on for dear life, then cups the air, inviting me to climb up. If I can make the climb, it seems, he’s willing to let me keep trying. Maybe he honestly believes himself invulnerable. I almost believe it too.
Pulling myself up isn’t that hard, though the armored vest and its chest-mounted surprises do make for a tougher climb. They catch on the rail and I’m afraid they’ll go off as I roll over the edge and onto the floor.