Stalker's Luck (Solitude Saga Book 1) by Chris Strange

side of a stained glass dividing wall—red glass, naturally—and the main casino floor opened up. The place was gigantic. Row upon row of slot machines and gaming tables stretched out into infinity. There was a slight curve to all the red-carpeted pathways that ran between tables, so once you were inside the exit was never in sight. She could see three bars from where she stood, each crowded with young men and women mostly dressed in the sleek, pointed fashions of Babel and Ophelia.
    In amongst the rich foreign socialites, a woman paced and drank and slid a stack of chips onto a green felt mat, all with the nervous twitch of a habitual stim user. To the tourists, she was invisible. To the floormen dealing cards and supervising games, she was a walking pile of vin.
    “A lot of staff around,” Dom noted. “Why are they still working when they’re all about to die?”
    “That’d be Mr Leone’s doing,” Knox said. “Word is he has a way off the station. And he has a reputation for taking care of his own. All these poor saps are praying to the Great and Just Lord Feleti Leone to save them. And all they have to do is put on a red suit and a smile and take these tourists’ money.”
    The universe really was filled with fools. Or maybe desperation just bred foolishness. She was no exception.
    She put the thoughts aside. She had a job to do.
    “Where would this private elevator be?” she asked Knox.
    “My bet? Central column.” He pointed to the centre of the wide casino floor. A silver pillar a few metres in diameter rose from the floor to the ceiling’s highest point. There were two mezzanine floors above them, and the uppermost one extended all the way from the wall to the column.
    “Entrance up there?” Dom said.
    “Your guess is as good as mine, darling,” Knox said.
    The two of them found the stairs and headed to the upper levels. Up here, the guests’ clothing became more expensive. Dom became even more self-conscious.
    As they ascended to the upper mezzanine, a set of doors came into view on the central column. They were flanked by a pair of red-suited security. Dom let her gaze slide past them. She was conscious that Knox was drawing occasional glances, and she wasn’t doing much better. Nothing particularly suspicious about a dwarf or a large woman, but they’d be remembered if something happened.
    She settled herself on a stool at a slot machine shaped to look like an old battle cruiser. Knox looked it over with a sneer.
    “It’s supposed to be the Nador Three,” he said. “Solar Federation vessel. The Fringe forces tore these things to pieces by the dozen during the Gravity War. The fucking crates couldn’t turn. Fringe fleet would just open up a Gypsy trail, jump in behind them, and broadside them with grav beams. Then jump away again before the fleet could mount a response. Typical Solars. Big dicks, all right, but they didn’t know how to use them.”
    “Delightful,” she said. “Is that what they teach you about in the Radiance? An old war that no one remembers?”
    “It’s a shame, really. I wish I’d got the sort of practical education I hear you New Calypsans got. What did they teach you? How to turn an empty beer can into an improvised explosive? The delicate art of applying Molotov cocktails to a line of police recruits?”
    She set her jaw and turned away from the augment so he wouldn’t see how close he’d hit. She grabbed hold of the slot machine’s lever and tugged it down. The dials didn’t spin.
    She felt—rather than heard—Eddie come up behind her. By now she could recognise his thick aftershave anywhere.
    “You’ll need some chips if you want to have a spin on that,” he said, his voice barely distinguishable above the excited rumble of wins and losses and whirling colours echoing up from the lower floors. He pushed a small crimson sack into her hand. When she opened it, it was filled with low denomination casino chips. She took one out and put it in the