by Ubukata, Tow
Boiled could feel the mouse pressing his tiny body up against the wall created by his palms.
The warmth from Boiled’s hands seemed to melt into the faint glow of the body heat from the mouse.
Boiled had never felt anything like this before—and he thought he never would again.
Nice…and…warm…
Eventually the mouse’s face emerged from the gap between Boiled’s fingers. The mouse stared closely at him.
Tha…nk…you…
He sounded just like a talking animal on a children’s television show. And, for a moment, Boiled felt like a child again. A warm glow filled him, driving away for a moment the terrible, terrible memories of war and slaughter and guilt and shame.
Who…who? Who…you?
The mouse spoke with a clear, high-pitched tone—it was incredible to think how young he’d sounded back then.
Dimsdale-Boiled, Boiled had answered. The name he had been given by his proud parents, his typical affluent war-generation family who had been only too delighted to see him grow up to be a fine soldier.
When Boiled’s parents left this world, his commanders in the army had filled the gap they left behind. Amid the close-knit, spartan conditions of training, the commanders became the natural receptacles for both love and hate for the recruits, just as in a real family. Boiled had vaguely imagined that one day he too would end up becoming one of those commanders.
That was before he lost everything and was disposed of as a soldier to be thrown to the wolves in Paradise.
And it was there in Paradise that Boiled stood, numbly holding the little creature in his hands.
The faint glow of warmth in his hands at that moment was more precious than anything Boiled had ever experienced before. The vulnerable little creature, so feeble that Boiled could have crushed him with the slightest squeeze, pierced Boiled’s heart more vividly than anything he had witnessed in battle.
Boiled had been assigned to Paradise to right a wrong, to redeem himself. Those were his orders, and it was what he wanted. But what was it that Boiled had really lost during his years at war? The creature that he cradled in his giant hands held the answer to this question.
Why…does…it…hurt…you?
That was what the mouse had asked, in his high, childish voice. Boiled didn’t understand what he was saying at first.
Are…you…hurt?
Finally, Boiled understood that he was being asked if he was in pain.
He also understood why the mouse was asking him.
“No… I’m not hurt,” said Boiled, but inside he was deeply moved.
The mouse seemed to understand why people cried.
Boiled was crying. He cried as he felt the warm bundle of life in the palms of his hands, and he cried as he apologized in the depths of his heart to the friends and comrades that he had killed. He cried as he desperately sought forgiveness, as he discovered the one fragment of redemption in the dark abyss where his soul had been plunged.
That was the moment he vowed to himself that he would overcome his addiction.
He was going to wipe the slate clean. Wipe his life clean. This would be his new purpose.
Boiled handled his duties at Paradise with aplomb.
Or to put it another way, Boiled survived what Paradise subjected him to. Many of the other experimental candidates ended up crippled, permanently disfigured, but Boiled endured what Paradise threw at him—and made it his own.
He did so because of the existence of Oeufcoque. While Boiled was in Paradise, Oeufcoque developed at an astonishing rate, and before long he was able to converse with Boiled as an equal.
Years passed, and Boiled survived. All traces of the aftereffects of the drugs had been purged from his body—along with a number of other things.
Of the things that he had lost, some were plain for all to see. Others, only he knew about.
One of them was repose: the sleep that he had so desperately needed as a soldier, only to be denied it. Ironically, Boiled’s body no longer required it.
His brain and metabolic system had been altered so that he could survive on meager rations and no sleep. A new breed of soldier was born, and Boiled was hailed as the first of a wonderful new species.
But though the operation was repeated successfully on monkeys and some reptiles, it just wouldn’t seem to take on any other humans. Indeed it left many of them forever disabled.
Then the monkeys and reptiles all started showing a similar set of tendencies.
The monkeys that had been subjects started wringing the necks of control-group monkeys. They didn’t particularly seem to hate their targets. They just wanted lebensraum, and the control monkeys happened to get in their way.
The killer monkeys seemed to be able to work out that the best time to attack was while the others were asleep.
As far as monkeys went, this was abnormally aggressive, deviant behavior.
The asomniatic monkeys didn’t even bother to try threatening the other monkeys, to intimidate them into giving them more space, like a normal monkey would do to increase his territory.
The killer monkeys just got rid of the sleepers, as if they were brushing aside so much rubbish.
Quite how this sort of behavior was linked to sleeplessness was never explained, despite the scientists’ best efforts.
A number of monkeys had successfully undergone the operation, and they all seemed outwardly normal. Except that they showed no inclination to form any sort of pack. It was as if they deliberately wanted to cut themselves off from the world, to survive as islands unto themselves.
Just as the subject monkeys stopped feeling pain or sorrow, Boiled’s heart too was gradually filled by a vast, vague nothingness. There was no visible change on the outside, though, and he seemed the picture of health.
The experimental subjects—the monkeys and Boiled—were always in good spirits and, illnesses excepted, in great health.
Body and mind unchangingly healthy. Thus there were none of the natural fluctuations in emotional states—no ups, no downs—and gradually emotion, feelings, withered away, unused.
Nice…and…warm…
“Oeufcoque…”
Boiled let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and stared at his palm.
The memory of the golden mouse that was once in his palm came flowing back to him—the only part that he could no longer remember was the feeling of warmth that he had felt when Oeufcoque was in his hands.
The warmth that he had definitely felt when the mouse was first in his hand—the warmth that had welled up from inside his chest and spread out across his entire body—he felt nothing of this now; he was just an empty husk, a discarded carapace of an insect.
Being so near and yet so far—remembering the contours, but none of the substance—only served to emphasize more keenly just what Boiled had lost.
“I don’t need a reason to hold you…” Boiled murmured to himself, then put his right hand back on the steering wheel. “I need you back in these hands.”
He needed to wipe the slate clean. To wipe out his failures—to drive out the flashbacks, once and for all. To annihilate his past so that he could start anew, painting a new life on a blank canvas.
“And if I can’t have you back, then all there is left to do is to destroy you…as something I never needed in the first place.”
Boiled’s car accelerated and sped into the night.
The flicker of anticipation that he’d felt earlier was crystallizing into something more definite. He knew where his quarry was now. He was sure of it.
He felt like he had left something behind and needed to hurry in order to retrieve it before it was too late.
A word floated into his mind—curiosity. The word that Faceman had used back in Paradise.
Suddenly, Boiled was overflowing with curiosity. It replaced the emptiness that usually passed for emotions inside him.
Boiled raced uptown, like a shark swimming full speed ahead on the trail of blood.
Toward Shell’s casino.
04
“One of the key factors that will influence our odds of winning is whether we understand clearly the difference between tactics and strategy,” the Doctor pontificated.
He was walking straight toward a certain part of the casino. As if he knew exactly where he was heading at a single glance and this was something he did on a daily basis.
“Tactics are the individual choices made in response to the situation in hand, as it develops,” the Doctor continued, index finger held aloft. “The first such choice is to stay. The choice not to draw any more cards.”
Then he raised his middle finger. “The next choice is to hit. This means choosing to add another card to your hand.” He waited until he saw Balot nod, then continued. “The third choice is to double down. With this choice you make your next card your last, and double your bet.”
Balot nodded again. She’d already had the rules beaten into her in plenty of detail. They were simple enough. But that very simplicity meant that the game demanded complex calculations from a player if they wanted to master its subtleties.
The Doctor raised his pinky. “Fourth, split. When you have two cards of the same number, you can divide them into two different hands, so you have two bets riding. To do this, you need to double your original stake.”
–That’s fine. I’ve got it.
“Ah, there’s one more.” The Doctor spread his thumb out to join the rest of his fingers. “Surrender. Not all casinos accept it, but it’s part of the house rules here. You pay half your original stake, pull out from your hand, and get the other half of your stake back.”
–What about re-splitting?
“Unrestricted. You can split as often as you get the cards to do so.”
–Doubling down after a split?
“Permitted according to the official rules here. Well, it certainly looks like you’ve got it all covered.”
Balot scowled, but there was a cheeky smile hiding underneath.
–It’s not exactly hard, you know. I’m not an idiot!
“All I’m saying is a good grounding in basic tactics is a necessary foundation for strategic planning. Now, what’s the most important factor in choosing one of the five tactics?”
–The ten factor.
Balot answered as if she were solving a child’s riddle.
–The ten is the greatest card of all.
“Exactly—the opposite of baccarat. Now, the second factor is—”
–Whether we have a pat hand or a stiff hand. Good or bad.
Indeed, the Doctor nodded, the teacher satisfying himself that his charge had absorbed all the relevant information. “Furthermore, the presence or absence of which particular card has an influence on our tactics?”
–The ace. If you have one it’s a soft hand, without it’s a hard hand.
“And what’s the rule that we use to decide who has the advantage over the other between the player and the dealer?”
–If the dealer has a seven up, don’t stand pat.
The Doctor nodded, evidently satisfied. With his hand to his chin and his stooped shoulders, shuffling along the corridor, he looked just like a scholar lost in thought.
Or so it seemed, but then he checked his appearance and immediately transformed his demeanor into that of a player. He thrust his hands casually into his pockets and with a joyous expression walked toward the VIP room with Balot.
“As for our strategy, well, we keep it simple for now. Play tactically, and always keep our ultimate goal in mind. As long as we get our timing and our teamwork right—screw it to the sticking post—we’ll not fail. From now on, we’re in it to win it, not to enjoy ourselves.”
The Doctor was still putting on his happy punter act for everyone they passed, but Balot could see that his eyes were serious.
Balot tried to look as humble as possible to show she understood the gravity of the situation. Not that she needed to, for the Doctor continued, “Although I suppose it’s all right to enjoy ourselves a bit. It’s not every day we get a chance like this, after all.”
They had arrived at the entrance to the VIP room.
“O brave new world, that has such people in it!” said the Doctor, after they had taken a single step inside. Balot realized instantly from the air in the room that they were, indeed, in a whole new world.
This was a place designed for people used to luxury.
The dealers in this room were like sculptures carved out of ebony and ivory, and they dealt their cards on brilliant green tables against a backdrop of plush vermilion. In between were floor managers, stolid guardians looking out over all the luxury, and elegant waitresses that made all the others in the casino seem like country bumpkins.
This wasn’t excess designed to impress or dazzle. It was luxury designed to make those accustomed to the lap of luxury feel at home—to make the big spenders feel comfortable, to give them the sort of environment they were used to. You’re one of us, the room seemed to say, sit down and stay awhile.
As soon as the Doctor stepped into the room he was immediately accosted—ever so politely—by hostesses who had honed in on him. He brushed them away, indicating that he was used to all this and could find his own way around, thank you very much. He wandered straight into the room, as if to say I fit right in here.
The other players in the room all made a distinct impression on Balot. There was, for example, an elderly couple who gave off an aura of leisure—this was probably the only real excitement, real stimuli, they had in their lives. Then there was the surprisingly young man who had an older lady in tow.
“Pay the line!” and similar cries were heard all around, and whenever a player collected their winnings they did so with a casual sense of entitlement—not for them Balot’s furtive glances all around to see if she had really won…
Balot followed after the Doctor, and soon they arrived at a table. Excitement was bubbling up. The dealer was praising a player who had two cards in front of him and a triumphant air. The other customers looked on—and that was, indeed, what they were doing: looking but not touching.
The Doctor peered down at the cards on the table. “Normally, whenever a player’s cards total twenty-one, the payout is three to two, of course.” As he spoke, the man at the table was showered with a pile of chips. “This casino also has a pair of special house rules. When the player makes twenty-one by drawing three sevens, you get triple your money back. And, best of all, when the ace and ten are both spades, the payout is eleven to one. Now technically, this pushes the odds right into the player’s favor; play your cards right—it’s not a house edge, but a player edge. Theoretically, anyway. No casino would dare offer such incredible odds unless its dealers were the best in the world. The dealers here don’t have to rely on the odds—they have other ways of parting players from their money.”
Balot looked at the table, and indeed there were two spades: the ace and the one-eyed jack—so called because the jack of spades faced sideways on the card.
“Blackjack!” the Doctor called out as if it had been his own hand.
That was also the name of the game—Balot’s final challenge.
Also known as twenty-one—the game where you started with two cards and aimed for a total of twenty-one points, competing against the dealer to see who had the higher hand, unless the total was above twenty-one, in which case you bust out of the game. All picture cards were worth ten points, and the ace could be counted as either a one or an eleven, the player’s choice. Simple to learn, fiendishly difficult to master.
There were a number of good reasons why the Doctor had chosen this as their final game.
First of all, this was a game where it was possible to win the million-dollar chips. It had to be a game that was played in the VIP room.
Secondly, with games such as poker and baccarat, you were mainly betting against the other players, not the house; the casino just took its cut, and it was hard to win money from it directly. Difficult, therefore, to get y
our hands on the coveted million-dollar chips that served as an ostentatious advertisement for the casino. A professional gambler might have found these games amenable to his purposes of building up a steady profit, but Balot was here for a different reason. With blackjack you played directly against the house, the other players being essentially irrelevant. It was one-on-one, player versus casino.
Another key point was that the house edge was unusually low in blackjack. House edge—the statistical edge that the casino enjoyed over time—that small but significant gap between the true odds of a winning hand occurring and the actual payout. In the long run, the house would always win.
With roulette, for example, the actual true odds of a particular number coming up was thirty-eight to one. The payout was thirty-five to one, including the original stake. A player might win an individual game, but over time the odds would win out: the casino’s edge was 5.2 percent. For every thousand dollars that was bet, the house would rake in fifty-two dollars.
It was a little different with blackjack. If you just played normally, guessing and going with the flow, the house edge would certainly be over 5 percent, as in roulette.
But with a proper strategy, it was possible to reduce the house edge to less than 0.5 percent—a unique feature that only blackjack enjoyed. Blackjack wasn’t called a tactician’s game for nothing.
“And best of all, there’s no house minimum and no maximum. A true no-limit game,” said the Doctor, walking casually toward his target table. “Blackjack has always been the best chance a player has to get his hands on the million-dollar chips. In particular, whenever there’s a big game on, the chips are used as calling cards, and they flow backward and forward from player to house like balls in a tennis rally. The house always wins in the end, of course. That’s how good the dealers are here—they let nothing slip.”
The Doctor related this as if he had witnessed it all firsthand. That was how thorough his preparation had been. The intricacies of calculating the house edge were beyond Balot, but she did feel that she had a decent grasp of fundamental strategy. As long as Oeufcoque was in her hand, she was confident that she could play her part.
The only other thing she had to watch out for was not to get too sucked into her surroundings—she had to remain detached from all the glitz and glamor. It all rested on whether she could keep a cool head and play her hand as they had planned.