Lady Luck

Your odds of being struck by lightning in any given year are 1 in 700,000. Your odds of being killed by a tornado are 1 in 5 million, although those odds rise to 50 in 5 million if you live in a mobile home. Not even probability is free of classist influences. Your odds of dying in a plane crash are 1 in 60 million—much lower than your odds of dying in a car accident. Your odds of winning the lottery depend on how many people are playing, but they hover around 1 in 300 million in most cases. What if you could change those odds? Not just for yourself, but for anyone in the world?

I can. I started noticing my power when I was a teenager. The likelihood of getting shampoo in my eyes? 100 to 1. The odds that the cafeteria would still have dessert left by the time I made it through the lunch line? 1000 to 1. The odds of me hitting a red light on my drive to school? 4 million to 1. Unless I want to hit a red light. That’s how I learned my luck was something I could control. At first, I thought it was just traffic patterns which, as far as superpowers go, is a bit underwhelming. It’s not terrible, but there are definitely better options out there. 

Then my volleyball team went to state and won for the first time in thirty years. The boy I liked asked me to the winter formal. I aced the SAT, then aced it again when I had to retake it to confirm my score. I think I earned the score both times. I hadn’t changed anything beyond the likelihood that what I studied would be on the tests. I got acceptance letters followed by scholarship offers from every college I applied to.

There’s no such thing in life as a guarantee, but being able to manipulate probability is the next best thing. Unfortunately for me, there’s no such thing as actions without consequences either. 

Increasing the odds that something good happens to me means that it’s less likely to happen to someone else. Maybe someone that needs it more. Decreasing the likelihood that something bad will happen to me means that it’s more likely to happen to someone else. I can’t make luck, just change it. 

I learned that the hard way. 

“Hey, darlin’” a man’s voice drawls, and I turn to look at him.

Numbers flash through my mind. Odds that he’s dangerous? 1 in 3. Odds that he’s going to bother some other poor woman in this crappy bar if I shuffle probability and make him leave me alone? 7 to 2. Not great. 

“Hi,” I say. Friendly, but not encouraging. Polite, but hopefully not projecting any interest.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“My night as the designated driver,” I say, smiling apologetically. It’s not technically a lie—I’m alone in the bar and driving myself home. I’m also working, but I’m clearly not a bar employee. I don’t want to have to make up a lie about what I do. 

“Quit flirting and pay attention,” a voice snaps from my earbud. “The target will be here any minute.”

I would like to tell Alex that I know and that I’m not flirting, and if he hadn’t insisted on putting me in a dress to fit in with this bar’s normal crowd none of this would be happening, but I can’t with the man looming over me. Alex really ought to listen to the woman that can see probabilities.

“A shame,” says the man, leaning closer. He smells like cigarettes and I have to fight not to wrinkle my nose. 

“You know how it is,” I tell him vaguely, scanning the room. Alex is right. The target will be here soon if everything is going according to plan. 

“Target spotted,” says Alex as if on cue. “Ten o’clock.”

Ten o’clock is directly behind the man leering at me. I force my lips into a smile and crank up the probability of him having a bathroom emergency as high as I can. He immediately goes green. “Pardon me,” he mutters and makes a beeline for the restrooms. 

My line of sight is clear, but the target is nowhere to be found. “Alex,” I hiss. “Where did he go?”

Static from the earbud and nothing from Alex. 

“Alex,” I say, slightly louder. “Where is he? I don’t see the target.”

Still nothing. I clamber off of my barstool and hobble toward the parking lot as quickly as I can manage in my ridiculous shoes. This is the last time I let anyone talk me into stilettos. I only have to be able to see someone to change their luck, which means I don’t normally have to run during an op. Occasionally though, while the odds aren’t good, something does go wrong. 

The surveillance van Alex inhabits is parked at the back of the gravel lot. Even in the dim light, I can see that the doors are open and equipment is scattered everywhere. “Damn it, Alex,” I sigh, and approach cautiously to look for bloodstains. 

There aren’t any, which is good news. The bad news is I hear footsteps behind me and a man’s voice says, “Hands up. I’ll shoot your friend here if you turn around.”

“I’m fine—” Alex gets out, but the man must hit him because there’s the sound of a fist meeting ribs and he goes quiet. 

There’s nothing I can do to change the probability of the gun misfiring or my attacker suddenly having a heart attack if I can’t see him, which he must know. “Would you be Arnie Gulheim?” I inquire, numbers and scenarios racing through my mind. 

“Smart and pretty,” Gulheim says approvingly. “Such a shame you came after me tonight. I’m a bit busy, you see.”

“Threatening federal agents?” Alex grumbles.

“The federal government does seem to take offense when one of their own disappears,” Gulheim muses. “Never anyone from your particular department though. Imagine that.”

Because people from our department, even the name of which is classified, often disappear in ways normal people simply don’t. The government doesn’t want anyone asking any uncomfortable questions about agents turning into beetles, columns of marble, or puddles of goo. 

The odds of Gulheim shooting Alex are high if I try to move. The odds of Alex dying if he’s shot at such a close range are also very high. 

I should have rigged the lottery ten years ago, consequences be damned, and gone to live on my own private island somewhere far from other people. 

I hear the click as Gulheim turns the safety on his gun off. I start to spin at the same moment. My dress rips and the roundhouse kick I’d meant to get Gulheim with misses, but he’s startled enough that the shot he gets off goes wide. It hits one of the van’s tires rather than Alex and I use the opportunity to grab all of Gulheim’s health-related probabilities with both metaphorical hands and yank on them. 

He has a heart attack, an aneurism, and a pulmonary embolism all within five seconds. He hits the ground two seconds later, already dead. 

“Well,” says Alex as he brushes imaginary dust off his shirt. “The briefing only said they’d prefer if he was brought in alive. It wasn’t a requirement.” 

I gingerly remove the gun from Gulheim’s slack fingers. “There is that.” 

Alex dials the clean-up crew’s number. “Tangerine alpha,” he says, which is the code phrase for a single dead body. Then he gives the address, waits a moment, and hangs up. “ETA fifteen minutes,” he informs me. “Want to get pancakes after this?”

“I could go for some pancakes.”