Mardock Scramble

–Stay.

The dealer then proceeded to reveal his hidden card. A 7. Total eleven.

He drew once more, bringing his total to eighteen.

Balot’s chips were taken in by the house again, but the focus of her interest had shifted elsewhere.

–What sort of game?

–From now on a player will leave the table at every new shuffle. Let’s try and guess which one.

–Leave the table? How can you know a thing like that?

–There’s less than an hour to go before this dealer moves on. He’s worked hard to bring the punters here under his spell and doesn’t want another dealer taking over and reaping the benefit.

Oeufcoque spoke as if the dealer was a big game hunter on the trail of his trophy beasts.

–But what about if someone else comes and joins the table?

–Unlikely at this point. Certainly the dealer isn’t expecting it.

–Why not?

–Since we arrived at this table the dealer stopped looking out at his surroundings. He’s been deliberately cultivating the impression that this is a close-knit table of friends all playing together—a closed shop to outsiders.

Balot didn’t ask him how he knew all this. As far as she was concerned her hands were cocooned in a pair of magic gloves, founts of infinite knowledge and wisdom. Balot just sat there, deeply impressed.

–Why only one at a time, though?

–Everyone breathes differently, with different rhythms. If the dealer wants to be certain, that’s what happens. This dealer intends to pluck the players at his table one by one, thoroughly emptying their pockets.

She hadn’t really noticed until now, but Balot’s two cards had come. Jack and king, total twenty. She didn’t need to look at the upcard to know what her move would be. Balot more or less ignored her own cards and turned her attention to the other players instead.

–The woman.

That was Balot’s guess. The monocled man might have been losing heavily, but she didn’t think he was the type to give up that easily. The old man was playing steadily and going nowhere in a hurry. If he did move, it would be on the lady’s orders, to accompany her, probably. And if anyone was going to be the first to leave it would probably be that fat lady; she was betting extravagantly, losing heavily. Even if she wanted to stay on, it wouldn’t be too long before she ran out of chips, surely?

–Fine. So if the woman is the one to stand at the next shuffle, you win.

–Why, who do you think it’ll be?

It was Balot’s turn. The dealer was smiling at her, patiently waiting for her to call. It was a gentle smile, inviting. Doing her best to fight it, she calmly called out her intention to stay.

The result of the hand was that Balot was the only winner. The monocled man, red-faced, called a waiter over and snatched a glass of gin off his tray, gulping it down to try and cool off in the face of the heat of the battle.

–The man on the right.

Balot was a little surprised at Oeufcoque’s answer—the monocled man seemed so into the game after all.

–Anyhow, let’s enjoy the game as it unfolds and pray that no one else joins the table.

Balot felt somewhat placated and placed her chips in front of her. Everyone’s chips were now down, and the cards were dealt. Balot barely paid attention to her own cards anymore, focusing instead on the piles of chips in front of the monocled man and the fat lady respectively.

The man bet a minimum of five hundred dollars on every hand, doubling down whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The woman’s bets fluctuated randomly between around three hundred and a thousand dollars at a time.

Neither showed the slightest inclination of wanting to leave their seats. As long as their bankrolls were intact, wild horses couldn’t drag them away.

The next interesting development came at around ten hands after the shuffle. The monocled man had a seventeen in front of him and boldly charged on, hitting. The card he drew was a 4. Total twenty-one—the monocled man was the only winner.

“A prudent decision, if I may be so bold as to say so, sir,” the dealer said, without missing a beat, as he placed the cards in the discard pile. As he did so he placed the 4—the card that had brought the man’s hand up to the elusive winning total—on the side, as if he were admiring something precious. Balot felt something akin to an electric shock down her spine and rubbed the back of her neck in a reflex action as she snarced Oeufcoque.

–Did the dealer say that on purpose? To manipulate him? Not just out of politeness?

–Hmm…politeness is, in itself, a form of manipulation, of course. But you’re right, that was somewhat over the top…

–The dealer was talking as if the man in the monocle was something special. What a kiss-ass!

–Well, some people like having their asses kissed, as you put it. And it opens up a chink in their armor. This dealer’s got it all worked out—which words he needs to use with which person in order to lay them bare. So that they enjoy themselves even as they’re losing, being bled dry of their last dollar.

Balot’s nose wrinkled as if she smelled something burning. To enjoy yourself even as you’re losing. This was all that a lot of people wanted, she supposed. Amusement was king. To head in with a cool head and a steady hand—this was the sort of player the casino really didn’t want.

The festive, elegant atmosphere, the service nonpareil, the elegant courtesy—strip that away and all that remained was the house edge that shaved away at the customers’ chips, gently but surely. That was why it was called the edge after all; it was as deadly and as certain as the sharpest of knives.

It was then that it occurred to Balot that she really could lose her bankroll here.

What would happen if she had to start all over? What about the trial? And would she really end up a suspect of crimes against the Commonwealth? Could she go back to an existence where all that was left was to endure, day in, day out? Her skin crawled at the thought.

Suddenly the game she was playing didn’t seem so interesting anymore. She had lost all thought of amusement. Everything was riding on this battle—her whole world. She couldn’t allow herself to be flustered by a dealer such as this one.

–Cool it.

A strong admonition from Oeufcoque. He sounded blunt—harsh, even—but it was a clear sign of just how attuned he was to Balot’s thoughts and feelings. He wasn’t about to let her make a grave mistake.

–Before you go charging in, you need to have the full measure of your opponent. Forewarned is forearmed.

Balot squeezed her left hand in lieu of a nod. Tightly. Then she focused her full attention on the game at hand. On the dealer. On the other players. And on the cards. Telling herself that the long and winding road could yet be the shortest and surest route to her final destination. After all, hadn’t Oeufcoque and the Doctor been right about everything so far, showing her the best path to take?

Oeufcoque’s words were sinking in properly. The full measure of your opponent— Oeufcoque wasn’t just helping her out of a rut. He was teaching her. Empowering her. Showing her how to fight against her own powerlessness. So that she could win. He was showing her that she had a chance, a choice. She felt fiercely in tune with the mouse at that moment.

Her reverie was interrupted by the voice of the monocled man. “Is this the sort of hand I should hit with, would you say?” He was asking, of all people, the dealer.

The man’s total was fifteen.