A Certain Number of Hypothetical Scenarios, Page 2

  'What?'

  'You're big blind.'

  Pestilence rolled a chip down his pale, bony knuckles and flicked it onto the table. On his right sat Famine. He was small blind. Just as well, he didn't have two more chips to rub together. On his left War was busy sorting out his winnings from the previous hand. He'd lose them all again in a matter of minutes. If he ever learnt when to fold, he'd be a master strategist, but as things stood he was nothing to worry about in the long run.

  Across the table, with what can only be described as the ultimate poker face, was Death. Tells are only a concern for people with muscles and skin. This worried Pestilence a little, but Death never raised. He wasn't an aggressive player. He could take him.

  The dealer chip was an ivory disc. It was in front of Death. He shuffled the cards with an easy flowing motion. He wasn't performing any tricks, but he was so fast and flawless that it was impressive nonetheless. He dealt, the cards gliding face down across the table surface.

  Pestilence read the corner of his cards. 10 and Jack of clubs. Promising.

  War raised before the flop, a sure sign that he had nothing. Famine had to go all in to match him. Come the showdown, the straight flush that Pestilence had been hoping for failed to materialise, and Death won a modest sum, with Famine taking his winnings from the separate pot.

  He was still confident. He'd played it cool, stepped out when he saw the wind change.

  He clicked his small blind onto the table as Death rolled the dealer button to Famine, who shuffled competently and dealt. Pestilence had two Queens. He looked around the table. Only Death met his gaze. A faint will o' the wisp flickered in his sockets. The air between them hung in stasis for what seemed like aeons. Death folded. And waited.

  Pestilence played it smart. He raised twice, the second raise forcing Famine all in again. War raised three times himself, bloody minded as he was. He only ever made eye contact when he was bluffing, Pestilence knew, and the game was his when a third Queen appeared on the turn. By the end War's hoard was looking pitiful, and Famine was out of the game.

  'Guess I got a taste of my own medicine,' he said, leaning back in his chair and reaching for the whiskey. Pestilence lit a cigarette, and flicked another at Famine before he was halfway through asking for one.

  'They're bad for your health,' he growled, like a bear with laryngitis. 'So by all means, go ahead.'

  Famine winked.

  War cleared his throat. It sounded like the rumbling of a tank. 'Are you going to deal or what?'

  Pestilence shuffled with an elegant fanning technique. War snorted and muttered something about him being apocryphal, and Death just watched silently like he always did. Dealing the cards with deft flicks of the wrist, he watched everyone as they checked their cards. War looked pleased. Well, he didn't look pleased, he looked devious, which is what he looked like when he was pleased. Death looked dead. Famine looked curious and faintly drunk, and a good deal happier than he did when he was actually playing. His black shirt threw his pale skin and white hair into sharp contrast. He smiled and he watched the eyes of everyone at the table in turn.

  Pestilence had a 7 of clubs and an Ace of hearts. War raised. Death called. Pestilence called, he had more than enough chips to see where this went.

  The flop is where things got interesting. King of diamonds, 7 of spades and the 7 of hearts. Trip Sevens, Pestilence thought, and had to stop himself from smiling. But then he noticed War's expression. He hid it well behind his stony, stubbly facade but he had a good hand. They'd spent eternity waiting for the opening of the seals, at this point he could read his comrades like a book. They locked eyes. War's were the grey of steel, Pestilence's the grey of decay. What did he have? Pestilence suspected trip Kings. That would blow him out of the water.

  War raised. That was expected. Pestilence took a calculated risk and called it.

  On the turn, the 10 of diamonds.

  Pestilence watched War. He'd seen the calls, he wasn't so confident anymore. They all rapped the table in turn, Death's hand tocking on the wood like a glockenspiel.

  The Ace of diamonds came on the river. Pestilence almost grinned, but switched his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. Full House. He raised, War raised, Death called, Pestilence raised, War went all in, Death called, Pestilence called.

  Everyone showed their hands. War had three Kings. Pestilence laughed and fanned his cards, but when he looked at Famine, he wasn't laughing with him. He was watching Death.

  Death slowly and deliberately put down his cards. 10, Jack, Queen, King, Ace of Diamonds. He was always grinning, but this was the first time Pestilence had ever suspected that he meant it.

  'Wait,' he said. 'Why didn't you raise there at the end? You literally couldn't lose.'

  'Why bother,' replied the skull, 'when you guys always do the work for me?

  War was shuffling the deck with what Pestilence suspected was an intentional lack of finesse. He was mashing the cards together, trying to mix them with brute force.

  Pestilence looked at Death, and Death looked at Pestilence.

  'Well then. I guess it's just you and me, partner.'

  MANIFEST DESTINY

  Annalee scanned the horizon, sighting down her rifle as she rode. The lorentz rails were half melted after taking a hit to the barrel, but the sights still worked so it stayed slung on her back. An empty revolver hung at one hip, and a motegun was recharging at the other. She’d been jumped by bandits this morning and there hadn’t been a lot of sun to energize it. She lowered the rifle. She was alone on the prairie after all; her paranoia was getting the better of her.

  Thunder rumbled across the plains just as the dark clouds rolled above, and a spot of rain fell on her wrist, causing her to gather the reins and hide her hands under her poncho. She fiddled with the data key she wore like a bracelet, thinking about the schematics it somehow carried inside. Local storage was a big thing since the US government seized control of the tech industry. There was no such thing as free information anymore. Everything came at a price.

  When the more solvent members of society skipped the planet it left the country in a severely weakened state. Increasing austerity measures did nothing to combat a crumbling economy and the already fractious citizentry found themselves caught between the government, several incompatible revolutionary movements and a pervasive rash of crime and disease. Aggression from Mexico and unsanctioned expansion onto Canadian soil soured international relations even as the rest of the world was being sucked into America’s perpetually deepening sinkhole.

  Annalee took a deep breath; she was glad to be back in Canada. At this point the break down had spread well beyond the states, but even so she felt safer here. The vast emptiness of the steppe appealed to something deep inside her, and even as the weather worsened she felt at home. It was hard to believe this used to be a dry place.

  Miles later she reached her destination, a narrow sheltered gully where a small creek ran, swelled by the rain. Leading her horse by the reins she picked her way over the shale. She was searching for the entrance to a bunker; water spilled from the lip of the gully as she peered into a hollow. That’s when she heard hooves above and behind her. Two riders were there, dressed in the armoured uniform of US government rangers. One was taking aim.

  Annalee ducked just in time for the shot to slap into the mud instead of blowing a hole in her head. Her horse bolted in fright but luckily she had enough of a headstart to mount it as it ran. Weaving through the serpentine passage at full tilt she hoped she’d manage to give them the slip, but upon emerging into the field she found they’d headed her off at the pass.

  Her motegun beeped angrily as she tried to thumb it on, still uncharged. She dropped it but didn’t dare raise her hands for fear of revealing the data key. Rain dripped from the ranger’s gravedigger rifle. Annalee reflected on the schematics that would go undelivered and hoped that her failure wouldn’t keep the others stuck on-world. As for herself, she’d just wanted her chi
ldren to grow up free of the things she’d struggled through. If she was to be denied the possibility of children then so be it. There was nowhere she’d rather die.

  GHOST SHIP

  The schooner glowed with blood red light, Saint Elmo's fire burning atop its masts. Three skeletons sat in the cabin. They were drinking rum.

  “What I'm saying is,” said the First Mate, “Why would a ship even become a ghost? Ghosts are the spectral manifestations of the unquiet dead. The ship isn't dead, it was never alive!”

  “It was when it was trees,” pointed out the Quartermaster.

  “When did you ever hear of a ghost tree? Or, for that matter, when did you ever hear of a ghost plane, or a ghost zamboni? You don't, that's why. I mean when. There is no logical reason-” he hiccuped and slid the bottle of rum across the table. “There's no logical reason why a boat would become a ghost.”

  “Ghost trains,” said the Quartermaster.

  “A ship,” said the Captain, adjusting his captain's hat, “Is more than a boat. She's something we inhabit. Something we bond with.”

  “But ghost trains,” insisted the Quartermaster. “Explain ghost trains to me then. Did the ghosts bond with the train? Or are they commuting?”

  “Ghost trains're nothing but a children's tale,” growled the Captain. “A ship, she changes you. When you roam the seas, you become a different man. Your soul belongs to your ship, and your ship becomes more you than your own flesh and bone.” He rapped his knuckles on his ribcage. “A ship has a soul. A train, on the other hand...” The Captain tailed off. He wasn't really sure what trains were all about.

  “...Well, I guess that makes sense...” said the First Mate, hesitantly.

  The Quartermaster took a swig from the bottle and slid it back to the First Mate. “People really like sports cars,” he said. “Like, really like them. Why don't you get any ghost sports cars?”

  Everyone thought about this very intently.

  “If you haunted a car,” said the First Mate eventually, raising the bottle, “you wouldn't be allowed to drink.”

  TACTICAL ESPIONAGE ACTION

  Kurt Plissken reloaded his gun. Then he reloaded it again. Sneaking behind an enemy guard he raised his combat knife and prepared to perform a stealth kill. Then he did a forward roll directly into the back of the guard's knees and set off an alarm. Spotlights and red laser sights swept to his position, and a dozen gunshots later he was dead. This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

  Back in the 90s Kurt had been the best of the best, the foremost name in tactical espionage action. He and his player had been an unstoppable team, training relentlessly together until every mission had been mastered and every secret unlocked. In the fifteen years that followed, he'd been content to gather dust in the loft, secure in the knowledge that he'd done everything there was to do and seen everything there was to see. His legacy would live on in his player's pro skills, and his save file stood as a monument to his illustrious career.

  He'd been happy up there, but it had come as a pleasant surprise to be dusted off and unboxed. It was true that his story was 100% complete, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't missed the tactical espionage action. He and the player were reunited, ready to relive the glory days.

  That's when the player betrayed him.

  The player's nephew looked at the dull grey console with derision, and his expression had only become more punchable as the game booted up.

  “These graphics are laaaame,” he'd said.

  The next few hours had been the worst of Kurt's life. Death after embarrassing death made a mockery of his flawless hardcore run. Even simple tasks became insurmountable with this idiot child at the controls. He threw grenades at his own feet. He ran off of cliffs. He jumped every time he wanted to open a door. He threw a grenade at his own feet every time he wanted to jump.

  Then came easy mode. Kurt would have died of humiliation had he not already died of landmines.

  Just when things were at their darkest, the player stepped in. Kurt crawled through crowds of guards unnoticed. He sniped far off targets without wasting a bullet. He disabled security systems and infiltrated secret areas to obtain the powerful weapons therein. He was perfect. He was whole again.

  He reached the boss, Bert Plissken, his nanomachine-enhanced evil twin brother. Time to earn his honour back. He remembered all the ways he and the player had prevailed in the past, switching strategies on the fly in beautiful synchronicity. The cut-scene began to play.

  “You are conglaturation,” said his twin. “But the line ends here.”

  Kurt delivered his poorly translated lines with renewed conviction. “Enough of your words. You are the one for whom the line ends here.”

  It was just like the 90s again. Kurt felt good. He felt confident. He felt...

  The player handed the controller back to his nephew and Kurt threw a grenade at his feet.

  Respawning at a checkpoint, he yearned to be put back in the loft. The indignity was too much. He watched with relief as the player's nephew reached for the power button.

  Do it, he thought. Please, just end it. Leave me in peace.

  “Oh wait,” said the nephew. “Almost forgot to save!”

  The pause screen turned to the save screen, and the nephew highlighted the first slot. The full slot. Do you really want to overwrite this save? asked the game.

  Kurt watched on horrified as the nephew selected 'yes'.

  TADPOLE

  The tadpole wriggled round and round through the lime-coloured water. Arthur wondered if it was supposed to be lime-coloured. Probably not. Maybe that was the problem. He peered into the fishbowl, his distorted face reflected back at him in a strange green hue. Tadpoles weren't supposed to get this big. Its stubby little legs paddled as it circled round and round. It didn't resemble a frog in the slightest.

  Arthur returned home to find the coffee table dripping and covered in shards of glass. The remains of the shattered fishbowl looked like a crystalline water lily. A figurine of a deep sea diver lay on its back looking shocked. Arthur looked around, slightly afraid. The carpet was sodden, but there was no sign of the tadpole. Could it even survive out of water? It had to be somewhere.

  He started laying mousetraps, bought a cat, and put childproof locks on all the cabinets. Meanwhile, the house developed a strange odour, damp and stale, like the oily green fishbowl water. Not once did he see the tadpole, until the day it left. A clatter from the kitchen brought him running, just in time to see the dead cat and a long black tail slithering out of the catflap.

  DEPARTMENT OF FANTASY NAMES

  The department of fantasy names was busy today.

  "Name," said the clerk.

  "Ragnar," replied the vikingesque man at the front of the queue.

  "Greatest feat?"

  The man stroked his beard. "I did strangle a dragon one time."

  "How does Ragnar Wyrmsbane strike you?"

  "Well I didn't actually kill it, I just put it to sleep long enough to steal its treasure."

  "What was the treasure?"

  "This and that. Mostly gems. Sapphires, opals, kind of thing."

  "Ragnar Opalthief?"

  The man grinned toothlessly. "Aye, that'll do, thanks."

  "Sign here."

  The queue had started long this morning and had only grown longer. The Clerk sighed.

  "Name."

  "Lynnhilde," said an athletic young woman.

  "Greatest feat?"

  "I can skewer a fawn at fifty paces."

  "Lynnhilde Spear...deer? Wait. That doesn't work... how about Lancehart? It's kind of a pun, you see..."

  "Brilliant, thank you!"

  "Sign here."

  The clerk smiled. His job was rewarding sometimes.

  "Name."

  "I go by many names," said a gruff barbarian lady.

  There was a pause. "Which are..." prompted the clerk.

  "Some call me Keres Giantkiller, for I have slain more than a few. Some call me K
eres Hammershield, in honour of the manner in which I slew Lord Harrowtree, dark lord of the southlands. Some call me Keres Firetongue, for my terrible battle cry. Still others call me..."

  "Miss, there is a queue, what can I help you with?"

  "I'm getting married, I need to change my name. We're thinking of going double barrelled."

  "What's your partner's surname?"

  "Jones."

  "Keres Giantkiller-Hammershield-Firetongue-Jones?"

  "Giantkiller-Hammershield-Firetongue-Trueshot-Wolfkicker-Jones."

  "Sign here."

  Next in line was a blonde boy in white robes.

  "Name."

  "Luke."

  "Greatest feat?"

  "Well," he said, "I'm just starting out on my heroic adventures, but I'm a pretty great pilot."

  The clerk stopped and squinted. "A pilot? What do you fly? A dragon? Do you have some kind of magical cape or carpet?"

  "No, it's a T-16 Skyhopper. Modified. She's set records through Beggar's Canyon back home. I'm planning on getting some new power converters for her soon, I'll be blasting womp rats all day once they're installed."

  "I see. I'm afraid this isn't the department you're looking for, move along. Down the hall, first on the left."

  BOWSTRING

  Rain beaded on Iona's bowstring. It was coming down like a falling cloud, fine motes forming thick curtains that hissed as they hit the foliage. She didn't mind getting wet; she had a trenchcoat to protect her body and beeswax to protect her bow.

  The deer she was following picked its way through the forest, circumnavigating the ugly chambers of crumbling stone and stubs of rusted metal that the woodspeople called the Ruins. They made good shelter for bugs and birds, but larger animals seldom approached. Iona was glad. The Ruins creeped her out. People told stories about wild dogs and whispered voices... Iona didn't believe them, but all the same, she preferred to avoid the derelict cities. She was a hunter, but amongst those ancient avenues, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was prey.

  An hour later they'd left the relics to the ghosts and were deep in the wilderness. The canopy was thicker and heavier here. So was the rain. It drummed on the peak of her hood as she stalked through the brush. She adjusted her bracers as the deer entered a clearing and came to a halt in a lush patch of grass. The perfect opportunity. Iona inched forward, and suddenly it looked around, alert. She held her breath as it stared right through her. For a second she thought it was going to bolt, but then it decided it was safe and lowered its head to graze.