Red Queen (7 page)

“He figures if you keep playing, you're bound to lose.”

“Sure.”

I studied him. “But it doesn't matter how long you play, you'd keep on winning, right?”

Russ met my gaze. “Yes.”

“How?”

“No offense, Jessie, but we just met. Isn't that sort of a big secret to share so soon?”

“You spent hours flaunting your ability in front of me. I think I deserve some explanation.”

“All right, in exchange for a hundred thousand, I'll tell you my secret.”

He was bluffing; it was a favorite pastime of his. I decided to call him on it. “Fine. I'll trade the cash for your technique.”

He leaned over and spoke in a confidential tone. “I cheat.”

“Be more specific.”

“I know when to bet high or low because I know what kind of cards I'm going to get next.”

“How?”

He smiled. “That's twice you've asked that. No matter what I say, you're going to keep asking it.”

“That's not true. You're not telling me anything. That's not fair.”

“Fair? Is it fair I should have to tell you all my secrets on the first date?”

“Is that what this is? A date?”

He drank more of his coffee. “I hope so.”

He said the line so sweetly, I was touched. And it was true, he had a point, I was being too demanding. I settled down and sipped my coffee, while he began to dig into a piece of German chocolate cake. He took man-size bites.

“Are you going to play there again?” I asked.

“I've drawn too much attention. At most I can play at one or two other hotels on the Strip before I'll have to get out of town.”

“Are you saying your life would be in danger?”

“You act surprised—don't be. If I continue to win, the people who own these glittering towers will get annoyed. They're used to taking people's money, they don't like handing it out in suitcases.” He paused and drank some more coffee. “Someone, at some point, would take action.”

“You're talking about the Mob, right? I've heard it still controls Las Vegas from behind the scenes. That people just don't realize it.”

He surprised me when he shook his head. “The Mob has no power here.”

“Then who, exactly, would take action against you?”

“That's a story for another night. The main thing is you have enough money to go to school.”

“If I accept the hundred grand.”

“You'll take it. You may be a nice kid but you're not stupid.”

“I'm not a kid.”

He bowed his head. “My apologies.”

I nodded toward the dining area. “You left your laptop on. You should be thankful I'm not a spy. I could have gone through your mail.”

He was unconcerned. “I just use it to access the Internet and keep up with a few friends.”

“I noticed the brochures beside the computer. You work for West World?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I glanced at the brochure. They're a genetics company?”

“They've developed a technology whereby they can take a three-dimensional picture of your entire genome in a matter of seconds.”

“A real picture? One that shows where you might have a defect?”

“An extremely detailed picture. When our product hits the market, it will explode. It will allow any doctor to take a picture of you the instant you're born and predict—with a high degree of accuracy—what diseases you're likely to catch during your life.”

“The insurance companies will love that.”

“You're quick. A few years from now the insurance companies will probably demand to see such a photograph before they agree to insure you.”

“That's terrible. Just because someone has a predisposition to catch a disease, they shouldn't be denied insurance.”

Russ wasn't offended. “You won't get an argument from me. The potential for abuse with this device—we call it the scanner—is frightening. WW is having a convention in town this weekend to address these precise issues. Tons of insurance company CEOs, deans of medical schools, presidents of hospitals—just about everyone who's a major player in the medical field is in Las Vegas to hear about our technology. There are politicians here as well. Next to defense, the health industry is the largest industry in the world. Everyone who knows about the scanner wants some say in how it's to be used.”

“It shows how clueless I am. I didn't even know this convention was taking place.”

“Don't be embarrassed. The convention is large but West World has gone out of its way to keep the media away. There hasn't been a single article in the papers about our meetings.”

“I'm amazed you can keep anything a secret nowadays.”

“It's not a problem if you have enough money. West World is heavily capitalized, to the tune of twenty billion, and it's not even a public company. They know how controversial their project is. They want the scanner in widespread use before it gets major publicity.”

“Wait. You said ‘how controversial their project is.' Did you mean ‘product'?”

Russ put down his coffee and stared at me. “You don't miss much, do you? West World didn't just develop the scanner so it can pass them out to whoever can afford one. They're in the middle of a project where they're trying to scan the genetic code of every person on earth.”

“You're joking.”

“I wish I were.”

“How many people has your company scanned so far?”

“That information is proprietary.”

“Private?”

“Yes.”

I fidgeted uneasily. “Have I been scanned?”

I assumed he would say no, that I would know if I had been. But he stood and headed for his bedroom. He spoke louder as he disappeared from view.

“I don't know—I'll have to scan you and compare you to everyone we have in our database,” he said, as I heard him going through his drawers.

“You're going to do this now?”

“It only takes a few seconds. It doesn't hurt.”

“All right.” It was hard to say no to a guy who wanted to give me a hundred grand.

Russ reappeared a minute later with what appeared to be a narrow flashlight. Six inches long, it had a black metal exterior and a red tinted lens at one end. But the lens looked more like crystal than glass, and the thing hummed when he sat beside me and flipped on a side switch.

“We are now being recorded,” he said.

“Really?”

“This is an official reading.” He paused and continued in a businesslike tone. “Jessica Ralle, do I have your permission to scan your genetic code into the data banks of West World?”

I hesitated. “I guess so.”

“You need to say yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Hold out your arm, please, and roll up your sleeve.” I did as I was told. He continued, “Rest your elbow on the arm of the chair. It will make it easier to keep still.”

“Okay.” I discovered I was shaking a bit.

He flipped another switch and a red beam emanated from the top of the scanner. The beam was narrow. There was no question in my mind it was a laser beam. I felt its warmth as it
struck my arm. The sensation was pleasant but short-lived. The laser was on a total of three seconds. The device beeped faintly, the humming stopped, and the laser vanished.

“Got it,” Russ said, as he stood and walked toward his laptop. I rubbed the spot he had zapped. It felt warm.

“How does this device work?” I asked.

“It uses a laser to create a holographic image of your genes. Once your information is downloaded into the company's database, it's used to create a picture of your DNA.”

I stood and walked over to where he was using a cable to connect the scanner and laptop. The screen flashed a wave of binary code, at incredible speed, before it settled on a picture of what I knew from basic biology to be an image of a double helix.

It was so rich in color and detail, it literally took my breath away.

“God,” I whispered.

“Not quite. It's you.”

“Me?”

“Your essence. Because the image is recorded in holographic form, I can rotate it in any direction I wish, focus on any gene I want to.”

“Was I already in your database or not?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Do you see any problems with my genes?”

“I'm not looking.” He glanced up. “I know you hear the reluctance in my voice when I talk about West World's project. There's a reason for that. What I just did to you isn't like taking your fingerprints or even your blood. It's much more intimate. I now have the ability to know a tremendous amount about you—more than you would probably want me to know. For example, say I saw that you have a fault in your M5H2 gene. That would mean your chances of developing colon cancer are ten times greater than normal.”

I put my hand to my mouth. “Is that gene damaged?”

“I don't know.”

“But you just said—”

“I told you, I don't know anything about you because I chose not to look. However, if I change my mind and do look, I might discover your M5H2 gene is defective. Then I'll probably feel compelled to tell you to start having regular colonoscopies for the rest of your life.”

“Is that where they stick a rubber tube up your butt?”

“That's a sound scientific explanation of the process.”

I found myself fidgeting. “It's weird—I want you to look and I'm afraid for you to look.”

“Your reaction is normal. Most people feel the same way. They say knowledge is power but too much knowledge can be a curse. Especially if it falls into the wrong hands. Besides learning about your physical health, I can study your mental health as well by studying this hologram. I can even estimate
your IQ. I can do all this in a few seconds, without asking your permission.”

“But you did ask my permission,” I said.

“True. I told you, it was an official reading.”

“As opposed to an unofficial one.” I paused. “Does West World have the resources to scan everyone in the world without their knowledge?”

“They act like they do. But in the developing world, it's hard. Too many people and not enough roads to reach them all. But West World might go for it.”

“That seems to scare you.”

“A lot of things about this technology scare me.”

“Russ, if you don't like this company, if you don't trust them, why do you work for them?”

He reached over and turned off the picture of my DNA. He took his time answering. “Because by working for them, I remain in a position where I might be able to stop them from abusing the scanner.”

“Are you high up in the company?”

He glanced out the window. “You think I'm too young, I can't be very high up. Unless I happen to be related to the founder.”

He had read my mind exactly. “Are you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Let's just say I'm deeply involved in the firm. But I don't want you sharing that info with your friends from school.”

“Why tell me if you don't want me to share it? How do you know you can trust me?”

“Because I know they won't give a damn who I work for. Not when they see your bag of money. All they'll care about is how I win at twenty-two.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Huh?”

“You said twenty-two. The game is twenty-one.”

He stopped smiling and stood in front of me, placing his hands on my shoulders. For a moment I was sure he was going to kiss me. I had already decided I would let him. He was cute enough and I owed Jimmy nothing.

Nothing except months of pain.

“How would you like to learn to play twenty-two?” he asked.

“Don't be silly—there's no such game.”

“My friends and I play it all the time. It's the same game, really, it just has a few extra rules.” He added, “It might help you understand how I win at twenty-one.”

“You're joking.”

“I'm not.”

“Aren't you tired of playing cards?”

He checked his watch. “It's just after one. I have an early meeting. I have to be in bed by two. But we could play for a little while.” He added, “I'd enjoy it.”

Once again, who was I to argue with a man who wanted to pay for my college education?

Russ, to my surprise, had six decks of cards handy. They were new decks, still wrapped in plastic. He opened them and spread them out on the dining-room table. He shuffled them as quickly and smoothly as any dealer; he was a regular pro.

He took twelve packets of cash from the bag. Each one contained fifty one hundred dollar bills—five grand. Looking at the money, touching it, made my heart pound. It was mine, I kept thinking, all mine.

Unless I lost it playing twenty-two. Russ wanted to use the cash to play. He told me so in a serious tone. He kept thirty grand and gave me thirty.

“Since there's only two of us and you don't know all the rules, I'll play the part of the dealer,” he said.

“What do you mean, all the rules? I don't know any of the rules.”

“I told you, they're almost identical to blackjack. The big difference is the winning hand is twenty-two, not twenty-one. And the value of two cards is slightly different. In twenty-two, the queen of diamonds and the queen of hearts are worth eleven points rather than ten. In this game, if you get both those cards at the start, you have the equivalent of blackjack, or a natural. You immediately get paid twice your bet.”

“Not one and a half times your bet?”

“No. The reason is it's a harder hand to get than twenty-one.”

“Because all the picture cards aren't worth eleven?”

“Exactly. In blackjack, the best card to get at the start is an ace—that's how you get blackjack. But in twenty-two, an ace is no longer an important card.”

“Is an ace still worth one or eleven?”

“An ace is only worth one point, nothing else.” Russ paused. “By the way, twenty-two isn't called blackjack. It's known as the red queen.”