Mardock Scramble

by Ubukata, Tow

  The dealer’s total was eighteen. Of the ten bullets that Balot and the Doctor fired toward him, one missed and the other nine landed with deadly accuracy. The dealer was at death’s door.

  –The prize is within our grasp now.

  Oeufcoque’s words floated up on Balot’s hand as if he were giving her his blessing. Balot was truly thankful to have Oeufcoque silently watching over her.

  –All we need now is a couple more good chances and you should be able to pin it down.

  By “it,” Oeufcoque of course meant the thing that they had come to this casino for. The four million-dollar chips. The Doctor’s instructions came to mind again—they must steal the yolk without touching the white or the shell.

  The payout came. Between them Balot and the Doctor were looking at over half a million dollars. The plump lady might have lost big to the house, but in one fell swoop Balot and the Doctor had won almost five times as much from the casino.

  –See, it’s like I said. Stop being stingy with your chips, and they stop being stingy to you!

  Balot grinned cheekily, as if to say that this was only natural.

  –But it’s going to be a little tricky now, isn’t it, Uncle? With all these chips cluttering up the table, I mean.

  “Fine, well, once we manage to win a bit more we can exchange our chips for larger denominations.”

  –Okay, Uncle! We’ll just have to win some more then!

  “Sure. I think that if we could double what we have now then that ought to do it.”

  That bizarre conversation out of the way, Balot gave a convincing show of bracing herself for the next set of cards. Likewise the Doctor.

  The dealer stared at the pair of them in shock, as if they had each just grown a pair of wings.

  –Now we need to make sure this dealer stays put at this table.

  Instructions from Oeufcoque flashed up.

  –We need to convince the house that we’re a useful set of customers, ready to be milked for all we’re worth. Otherwise they might switch dealers on us or even ask us to leave the casino.

  At this point Balot noticed that the dealer was listening to instructions being sent to him through his earpiece. It seemed that the dealer had asked an attendant for more chips, and that the attendant reported this back to the floor manager. The dealer was being subjected to a lecture from an authoritative-sounding voice.

  The floor manager’s analysis was that the pair at the table were probably ordinary punters, high rollers who had somehow slipped through the net of the casino’s usually comprehensive VIP screening. But until their identities could be confirmed for sure, the dealer’s orders were to try and contain them. Keep the bets as low as possible, set a house maximum limit, and distract them with prizes and trinkets—free-stay coupons at the hotel, first-class plane tickets, and whatnot. Balot, though, had no intention of being contained by such things. She had to come up with a plan. She thought about what her opponent wanted. How she could act as if she were about to fulfil their needs.

  –Hey, Uncle? Why don’t we play a different sort of game now? First to use up all their chips?

  Balot gave her best impression of a spoiled brat who always got her way, however capricious.

  “Come again?”

  –A battle between me and you. First to get rid of all their chips wins.

  The Doctor was visibly stunned. As was the dealer. “That’s not, er, what this game is really about, you know? Or rather, I should say that’s not how you play at a casino…” said the Doctor.

  –What about lowball poker, then? When the weakest hand is the winner?

  “Well, sure, but even then, the aim is still to win the chips…”

  –But it’s so boring right now!

  “Well, then, if you insist, why don’t we go for something like a high-low split? First to either reach the target or get rid of all their chips wins? If you manage to beat me I’ll buy you whatever you want on the way home.”

  –You’re on, Uncle! I’m going to thrash you!

  The conversation had taken such a strange turn that the dealer had to struggle to keep up. But at least one thing was clear.

  “We’ve got a pair of easy marks here, sir. Sitting ducks,” the dealer whispered into his earpiece in a voice that was inaudible to Balot and the Doctor—or rather, would have been inaudible if not for Balot’s powers. Balot understood that she and the Doctor were angels, the answer to all the dealer’s prayers, for he would be able to get what he wanted from them—his marks. Balot felt the last twinges of pity for this man disappear. If he saw her as no more than a pigeon to be plucked, she’d deliver the same back to him, with interest.

  –Well played.

  Oeufcoque’s words floated up on her hand, and she squeezed back at them as she placed her chips for the next hand. The Doctor placed his chips too. The dealer never did get around to setting that house maximum; he was trapped in a quagmire of his own making.

  –This dealer already has one foot in the grave as far as this casino is concerned.

  Oeufcoque was providing a commentary now.

  –Not only that, it’s the foot in the grave bearing his weight at the moment. This dealer is no longer acting like an employee should. He’s taking this personally. He’s forgotten all his responsibilities and duties as an employee.

  Indeed, the man in front of Balot, Marlowe John Fever, now had eyes for one thing and one thing only: to bring down Balot and the Doctor, even if it took all the chips in the casino to do it.

  –Right, we’re going to divide our strategy into three parts.

  Oeufcoque had the measure of the dealer now and dictated a new course of play. The bankroll was divided into three piles. The tactical grid on Balot’s left hand split into three distinct tables, each showing their own sets of figures.

  –We’ll make tactical adjustments on a hand-by-hand basis.

  The idea was to divide Balot’s chips into three piles and to treat each pile as if it belonged to a different player. The first would be the sacrificial victim to pave the way for the other two. The second would perform a supporting task, gradually building up something of a bankroll. The third was there to deal the knockout blow when the time was just right.

  Balot also had to signal the Doctor’s moves too, so there were four lines of tactics in play at any given time.

  Balot had her hands full. It was true that her newly expanded bankroll gave her some breathing space, but the sort of tactics she was now attempting were far beyond the reach of a normal human being. It was only because Oeufcoque was with her that she’d be able to perform the sort of complex calculations that were needed to pull it off—all without the dealer being able to see through her plan.

  The game progressed, Balot winning steadily all the while. Just as they entered the final stages Oeufcoque gave another instruction.

  –Time to give the dealer a bit of a jolt, I think. We can’t have him get too coolheaded.

  For this was indeed what had been happening as the game had started to calm down again.

  –What should I do?

  The answer to Balot’s question was a tough one to swallow.

  –You really think I should say something like that?

  –I do. The time is ripe.

  Having received her orders, Balot gauged her timing, and when the moment was right she tapped the Doctor’s arm.

  “What is it?”

  Balot left the slightest of pauses before unleashing the words that cut like a knife:

  –I want to play at another table.

  The Doctor’s mouth flew open. But if he was surprised, the dealer looked as if he’d seen a ghost—no, as if his whole world were about to collapse around him. This girl, this girl who knew nothing, was rejecting her own table? When she was on such a winning streak?

  The Doctor protested, as if he were interceding for the dealer. “How come? You’re doing so well here! It’s time to press our advantage! Wasn’t it you yourself who said that we needed to be in it to
win it?”

  The Doctor, of course, understood Balot’s game perfectly. She had been worried for a moment that he might actually take her literally, thinking she was flaking, and that the Doctor really might get up to leave the table as she suggested. But he showed no sign of moving.

  –Fine, be like that. I’ll just win some more chips at this table, then.

  The dealer almost choked at the way Balot phrased this—so resentful!

  The red marker appeared during the next hand. The dealer went bust, and the round was over.

  The dealer hastily collected the cards. No longer could his hand movements be described as slick and smooth—his actions were those of a man scrambling to load a revolver. This is what I’m going to use to kill them, his fingertips seemed to say. Balot focused her attention on those fingertips.

  While she did this, the Doctor engaged the dealer in conversation, playing the part of a punter eager to fill the time before the action could recommence.

  And the manner in which the Doctor addressed him—“Marlowe” or even “Buddy,” he called the man, treating him as an equal, like a long-lost friend.

  Just as he has ever since he sat down at the table, come to think of it.

  Something clicked—and Balot realized exactly why the Doctor was doing this, why the Doctor had planned it from the start. It was to treat the dealer as an individual, to distinguish him from the casino. To strip away the dealer’s attachments, his sense of duty and responsibility toward his employers.

  The shuffle was over soon enough, and the dealer handed the red marker to Balot.

  Balot sensed the pile of cards and thrust the red marker toward the blind spot—the place that would cause the cards to flow with maximum advantage to the players and maximum disadvantage to the dealer. She did this without the dealer realizing what she was doing.

  Balot placed the red marker on the pile of cards. Just like that. Not in them, on top of them. It was almost as if she were mocking the dealer, making fun of the whole process. In reality though, there was more to her actions than mere mockery.

  The dealer’s hands wavered in midair. He did his best to pull the situation back, to proceed on to the cut as smoothly as possible. His actions may have looked convincing enough to the casual bystander, but in fact he missed his target spectacularly—by a wide margin. It was as if the gun that he had so carefully prepared and loaded—the weapon he had to protect him—had now fallen into enemy hands and was being turned against him.

  –That was your judgment call, was it?

  –Yup.

  –You said the dealer was manipulating the order of the cards—this is related to that, is it?

  –I just thought it was the best place for the marker. It’s made a lot of the smaller cards end up at the end of the pile.

  –How many?

  –Thirty cards. All sevens or lower.

  Balot thought she felt Oeufcoque grinning inside her gloves.

  –Very good. Now, let’s give our dealer friend another little jolt like before.

  –What do you want me to say this time?

  She was almost afraid to ask. And indeed Oeufcoque’s answer was that she should deliver a veritable death blow. His aim was so true. Ruthless.

  –Who are you and what have you done with Oeufcoque?

  –What have I done with…

  –Oeufcoque. Half-baked, wishy-washy. That’s what you’re supposed to be, it’s what your name means, isn’t it? And yet here you are!

  –Hmph, you mean I’m going too far instead of not far enough for once? Maybe you’re right. But needs must—this is a case where the ends justify the means.

  The mouse doth protest too much, Balot thought to herself.

  She giggled inside, then squeezed her glove to show that it was okay, she was with him. Then she did as he had suggested.

  –Hey, Uncle?

  She waited until the dealer was just about to finish exhaling and was at his most defenseless before continuing with her killer blow.

  –I’m bored here. Won’t you take me someplace where there are some nice men around?

  She was no longer rejecting the place. This was a personal rejection: she found the dealer unappealing. The dealer’s expression didn’t change. Instead, he stopped breathing. As if he’d had his breath sucked out of him. Indeed, for all practical intents and purposes Marlowe was now dead as a dealer; no longer was he the invincible master of the gaming table. He was a private individual, and a snubbed one at that.

  The Doctor tried awkwardly to persuade Balot to stay. “Let’s just try and enjoy the game, no? Look, you are winning, after all. If you give up now you’re turning your back on the rainbow that could lead to the pot of gold.”

  Then he turned to the dealer and shrugged apologetically.

  It was the dealer’s turn to speak. “I do apologize most sincerely for any way in which you find me lacking, my lady…” It was a small miracle that he could still muster up the self-restraint necessary to maintain his composure and keep smiling.

  Then the dealer removed his earpiece with his hand and crushed it beneath the table. He was out of radio contact with the rest of the casino. But Balot had managed to catch the last transmission that the dealer had received.

  It was from the floor manager, a frantic order to let another dealer take his place.

  ≡

  Outwardly calm but seething with rage and shame on the inside, the dealer was now losing hand over fist without even noticing that he was doing so.

  –Just as well that he’s usually such an accomplished dealer. The casino really is on the defensive—they don’t know how to play this one.

  Oeufcoque too had noticed that the dealer had rid himself of his earpiece.

  Despite this fact, and somewhat surprisingly, the casino had yet to send along a replacement.

  –They must be finding it hard to decide whether this dealer has lost the plot or whether he still might be able to pull it back for them. They should have checked us out by now.

  –Do they still think we’re suckers? Easy marks who just happen to be on a lucky streak?

  –They must. The one person in the whole casino who should be able to identify us accurately is Shell-Septinos. He’s supposed to be the owner here…

  Balot shrugged inwardly.

  –He’s probably forgotten all about us, right? With that operation that sucks out his memories…

  –It doesn’t suck them out, exactly…

  Oeufcoque chuckled grimly.

  –According to our sources, he’s preoccupied with this transaction he’s trying to set up. This really is our chance right now.

  –Transaction? You mean his marriage?

  –Exactly. Or rather the de facto promotion that he gets by marrying into the family of the house he works for. If we can pull the rug from under his feet then we may be able to bring his bosses down too—they’re the real target, after all.

  Bring them down and send them to hell—that was what Oeufcoque wanted to say, but he just managed to restrain himself.

  It would have been easy enough to simply batter the enemy into submission, after all. They had the means right in front of them. But it was more complicated than that, however thrilling the prospect was of seeing the enemy squirm.

  To be burnt out. It meant something. To know. It wasn’t so much the question of good versus evil that concerned Oeufcoque and the Doctor—it was the question of innocence and experience. What you could learn from seeing the world, with all its wonders and horrors reflected back at you. Could Balot learn, could she respond? If not then Oeufcoque wouldn’t have gone out of his way to help her as he did.

  Balot sat there silently, waiting for her moment. The point tally was rising steadily. She was winning at a rate of over 60 percent of the hands, and this winning streak showed no sign of abating. The nines in the pile of cards had all been used up, and the number of cards worth seven or below had been depleted massively. The ratio of tens to other cards changed massively, and t
hen suddenly there was a run of aces, appearing like a sudden gold rush and then disappearing again, a flash in the pan.

  The cards were plunging toward an inevitable equilibrium. Balot maintained her calm breathing, but inside her heart was pounding.

  Then there was a succession of small cards—the calm before the squall. The moment had arrived.

  –This is it. Time to go all-in.

  Balot took her cue from Oeufcoque and placed her hands on the pile that she had been keeping safe. One of the three piles she had created from her bankroll. Her troops that she had held in reserve, ready to be deployed in the moment of certain victory.

  It wasn’t a huge pile in physical terms, as the individual chips were all of high denominations. But when the dealer clocked just how much was now at stake, his hand that had been resting on the card shoe jolted as if he had been struck by lightning.

  –Might as well use them up…

  Balot spoke to the Doctor, but it was the dealer she was watching.

  “Very good. I accept your challenge, O niece of mine!” The Doctor responded as if he were calling a raise in poker and piled his chips onto the table to follow suit.

  And then there was half a million dollars’ worth of chips in front of Balot, with the Doctor not too far behind, with a stake of roughly three hundred thousand dollars.

  Passersby couldn’t help but stop in their tracks when they saw the extraordinary sums that were now at stake. They whispered among themselves. The dealer somehow managed to drag his hand back to the card shoe and force out a smile for the benefit of Balot and the Doctor.

  The atmosphere around the table had certainly taken a strange turn.

  The cards arrived. An 8. That was to say, the majority of the cards now on the table were eights.

  The Doctor had an 8 and an 8, a total of sixteen. Balot had an 8 and a 7, total fifteen.

  The dealer’s upcard was also an 8.

  “Stay,” said the Doctor.

  –Stay.

  The dealer gulped and turned over his hidden card.

  It was a 7. He drew again: 8. Then the red marker appeared.

  The red card that represented absolute, perfect victory for Balot and the Doctor.