Mardock Scramble

this fact.

Then in the next hand the man hit on sixteen and won, and the game was brought to a close. During the shuffle the topic of conversation among the players was, rather inevitably, the monocled man’s winning streak.

–The man on the far right is pretty amazing.

–Oh, the dealer has his eye on him.

–Because he’s winning too much?

–Being allowed to win, more like.

Balot didn’t immediately get what Oeufcoque meant.

–Doesn’t the dealer have his eye on him because he’s winning too much?

–No, he’s swallowed the dealer’s bait hook, line, and sinker. He just happens to be winning now, that’s all.

Right at that moment Balot noticed something about the man.

–He seems to be in pain?

The monocled man had the roughest breathing patterns of everyone at the table—by far.

–Good spot.

Encouraged by Oeufcoque’s words, Balot probed further, trying to get to the heart of the matter.

–Is it related to his breathing patterns?

–It is.

–But the man’s winning most of his hands, isn’t he?

–There’s more to this game than the number of hands you win. This statement struck an odd chord with Balot. Then she realized that she was thinking about an important aspect of the game from all the wrong angles.

–Can you tell me how much money everyone has bet so far? How much they’ve lost too?

–Roger that.

No sooner had he spoken than the existing tables on Balot’s hands were joined by detailed records of wins and losses to date for each player—P&Ls for each individual player at the table, as it were.

The most surprising statistic was the running total of the monocled man; in absolute terms he was considerably in the red. The old man was doing the best, closely followed by the Doctor. Balot had lost fairly heavily at first but was now keeping her losses down to about half the rate she was losing at the start. The monocled man and the lady were both roughly on a par with each other; that is to say, they were both losing considerably more than they were winning.

It was almost as if the more hands the monocled man won, the more he ended up losing overall.

–I never would have guessed that the man was losing so much money!

–Nobody would have—that’s kind of the idea.

–And is that because of the dealer?

What other explanation could there be? Somehow, the dealer was managing to beguile the man’s senses, causing him to lose track of his numbers.

–Well, it’s partly because of the way blackjack works, of course, and the man’s personality only exacerbates this. But the dealer has a hand in it too—I can smell something deliberate about the way he’s stringing the man along.

–Deliberate? In what way?

–In a most ingenious and subtle way…

The shuffle had finished, and now it was the old man’s turn to stick the transparent red marker into the stack of cards. The cards were cut, and the monocled man greedily thrust his chips forward. Five hundred dollars’ worth. Judging by the size of his bet the man ought to have had a total bankroll of close to a million—but he almost certainly had nothing of the sort.

The first cards were dealt. Balot paid close attention to the timing.

Sure enough, the cards were released the instant the monocled man was out of breath. He took a light gulp as the first card landed.

The man’s card was a 9. The cards were then dealt to the other players in turn; Balot had a 7 in front of her.

The dealer’s upcard was a 4. The players’ second cards were dealt in sharp succession, stabbing like a knife. The man was dealt a 6, and it made him choke on the air in his throat.

The instant after Balot’s second card was dealt, she heard the man’s voice: “Double down.” Before she could stop herself she glanced at the man’s cards to double-check what he had. A total of fifteen.

A losing hand, according to all logic. Judging by the way the other players were all watching the hand like hawks, Balot wasn’t the only one interested in the outcome of the draw.

It was an 8. Total twenty-three, and bust. The man’s face crumpled.

Suddenly Balot realized she ought to think about her own cards. A 7 and jack. A hand to stay.

Somehow her cards were making less of an impression on her than they had been. Not that she was doing anything wrong because of this; it was a straightforward choice, her cards dictating the obvious optimal move. Still, there was no doubt she was being distracted by the monocled man and his cards—sucked into his game, as it were.

–Why am I so compelled to watch this man? Is that because of the dealer too?

She really only asked this question in order to distance herself, to try and refocus her mind. But:

–That’s right. You’re half under the dealer’s spell too.

Balot squirmed inside when she heard these words.

–The dealer’s ultimate aim is to throw you all off balance, so that you end up acting in ways that you wouldn’t normally. That’s why he’s paying such close attention to all your breathing rhythms and picking his moment so precisely.

–Breathing rhythms?

–The basis of his techniques. Breath manual, it’s called—aiming for that moment when people are at their most vulnerable, just in between breaths. The dealer is playing all sorts of tricks by applying these techniques.

–Such as?

–Well, there are a number of important points to this game. One of these is the dealer’s upcard. As players, that’s really the first thing we should be paying attention to. But it’s very easy to get sucked in when we see our own cards—they tend to make much more of an impression on us as players.

–Even though the man is concentrating so hard on the game?

–You can’t really call that concentrating. Absorbed, maybe, but it’s not the same thing.

Oeufcoque was coming across as somewhat harsh now, and Balot straightened her posture in response. Oeufcoque continued.

–You could say that one of the dealer’s tricks is to manipulate the players’ impressions of the game. He senses how the players feel, latches on to this, and gradually shifts their perceptions so that they lose their grip on how their game is actually going. It’s a clever trick, and one that you fell for too.

–Who, me?

–The man at the end is completely under the dealer’s spell. Whether or not the other players start copying the man’s style of play, at the very least his game is likely to leave a lasting impression. The seeds of influence are planted, and all the dealer has to do now is cultivate them, make them grow.

–How?

–Why don’t you and I play a little game?

Balot’s eyes widened. In another world, it had become Balot’s turn at blackjack.