Jack Thompson's Arc

Chapter 11 of 25

Jack set the cracked dice on the bench and turned to Amelie. She was already moving. "One bridge held," she said. "Now the other gift. Probability. Come." She led him and 13 to the back of the plant, where a long concrete floor stretched into shadow. Bottles stood in a row on a metal shelf downrange, each painted with bold targets and numbers. Past them, mounted on the brick wall, a heavy spinning wheel of numbered discs clicked slowly around a red bullseye. "Yours," she told 13, nodding at the wheel. "Land your shots where you mean to. No more spray." Then to Jack: "Yours is smaller. The reels." Jack lifted Lady Luck. The shotgun's stock glowed faintly — three slot reels set into the wood, painted with tiny suns, drops, sparks, and stars. "Spin them," Amelie said. "Pick fire. Make it land on fire. Every time." He pumped the action. The reels spun, blurred, slowed. Sun. Drop. Spark. Wrong. He fired anyway. The bottle on the far left burst in a soft puff of water. Beside him, 13 cracked off two quick shots from his pistols. Both pinged off the outer ring of the wheel. "Patience," Amelie said, not looking at him. 13 grunted and reloaded. Jack breathed. He thought about the bridge inside him, steady now. He thought about wanting, instead of forcing. The reels spun again. He watched them tumble and felt, for half a second, the soft pull of every possible stop. He nudged. Sun. Sun. Sun. The shotgun kicked. The middle bottle exploded in a clean orange bloom that scorched the shelf. Three more pumps. Three more triple suns. Three more bottles gone in fire. "Good," Amelie said, quiet. Jack lowered Lady Luck, smoke curling from the barrel. His hands were steady. The reels had listened. Behind him, 13's wheel still spun, his shots still wide — but Jack had found the second thing he'd come for. He could choose his luck now. The question was what he'd spend it on.