Car 7 – The Casino of Futures
00:08:57 until next jump.
They emerged from the ladder into velvet darkness pierced by spinning neon. A roulette wheel the size of a swimming pool dominated the center of the car, its pockets labeled not with numbers but with years— glowing white digits from +50 down to –200. The ball inside was a human eye, iris darting as if trying to read the room.
A brass-vested croupier— faceless, mouth a coin slot— raised gloved hands.
"Place your bets, passengers. The house always wins, but the odds are negotiable."
Cass's Core buzzed:
> LOCATION TAG: CASINO OF FUTURES
CURRENCY: PERSONAL TIMELINE
EXCHANGE RATE: 1 YEAR = 1 RIFT CORE OR 12 MINUTES SAFE PASSAGE
Rows of slot machines lined the walls, each lever shaped like a tiny femur. Players— some human, some less so— fed coins cut from their own fingerprints. An elderly woman in a tattered ball gown won a jackpot; the machine spat out a toddler version of herself, giggling, before security dragged both versions away.
Mara stared. "This place sells tomorrow."
"And buys yesterday," Cass muttered, feeling every decade the Blood-Forge had siphoned.
Whisper tugged his coat and pointed to a blackjack table where the dealer was Lieutenant Jun Park— the ex-security officer who'd vanished two jumps ago. His uniform was crisp, eyes glassy, a barcode tattooed across his throat: PROPERTY OF OBSIDIAN EXPRESS.
Jun's voice was flat. "Buy-in is ten years. Win, you get a Key to Car 8. Lose, you stay and deal until the deck runs out of cards— about three centuries."
Cass's timer pulsed: 00:08:12.
He had no choice.
He sat. The cards were dealt— not paper, but translucent slices of calendar days: Monday, April 3, 2029; Tuesday, August 17, 2041. His first two cards totaled 2049— the year he was born. Jun's hand showed 2078— the year the Silence began.
Hit or stand?
Cass tapped the table. The dealer slid another slice: 2037— the year his mother died. Total: 2086.
Jun flipped his hole card: 2085. Cass won by a single day.
The table chimed. A silver Key materialized— shaped like an hourglass missing its bottom bulb. Jun's barcode vanished; his pupils refocused, horror flooding in.
"Cass? What the hell— where am I?"
"Welcome back. We're leaving."
But the house wasn't done. The croupier stepped forward, coin-slot mouth clinking. "Congratulations. A complimentary spin on the Wheel of Echoes."
The giant eyeball stopped spinning, locking onto –17.
The croupier smiled with no lips. "Seventeen years retroactively removed from your timeline. Please enjoy your shortened existence."
Cass felt it hit— a sudden lurch in his chest, like missing a stair in the dark. His reflection in a chrome pillar showed a man thirty-seven going on fifty-four.
00:07:03.
The casino lights flickered. A siren whooped: "Final wagers! Train departs in seven minutes."
Jun grabbed Cass's arm. "There's a back exit— staff only. I remember the code."
They sprinted past roulette tables where people bet their children's birthdays and lost their shadows. Whisper darted ahead, her crayon drawing flapping like a paper bird. On it: the Wheel of Echoes showing –90.
Cass's timer synced to the drawing— 00:06:30.
The back door was a vault wheel sealed by a digital lock. Jun keyed 2086, the year Cass had just totaled. The tumblers spun; the door cracked open on a narrow service corridor lit by emergency strobes.
Inside, a single slot machine stood unplugged. Its coin tray overflowed with tiny golden minutes— sixty-second discs stamped like doubloons. A handwritten sign: "Tips for the conductor."
Cass scooped a handful, stuffing them into his coat. Lifespan in pocket change.
00:06:00.
They burst into Car 8 just as the coupling clamps locked. Behind them, the casino lights died, and the giant eyeball rolled to –∞. The door sealed with a sound like a vault closing on a coffin.
Cass leaned against the bulkhead, breathing hard, the stolen minutes clinking softly in his pocket.
Jun stared at his own shaking hands. "I dealt cards for thirty-seven years in there. Felt like thirty-seven minutes. Which one's real?"
Cass checked the ceiling timer.
DAY 89 – 23:54:00.
"Doesn't matter," he said, voice rough. "The only clock that counts is the one above our heads."
A metallic thunk. The train lurched sideways and phased into the dark.
Next door: Car 8 – The Morgue of Tomorrow.