Excalibur 111 by Julie Duffy The setting sun transforms the drowned downtown into a lake of rippling gold. I check the eastern horizon for signs of approaching bad weather and see none. All I see is the silver sword of the 111-story tower that slices skyward out of the bay. I sigh. It’s the perfect time for a spot of crime. People say the city looked different before the Risen Tide; but no one alive now remembers it. The tower was newly-finished when the waters came. The city fathers made it their line in the eroded sand. They sealed and pumped out the lower levels and now it stands, in the middle of the enlarged bay south of the city, a monument to hubris. A media wag called the tower Excalibur, and the name stuck. The casino on the top floor is a clubhouse for the city’s elite; captains of industry, growing fat on the sweat of the workers who, in turn, grow thin spending their meager credits at the company stores. The rich mingle, secure in their playground at the top of Excalibur Tower. After all, who would try to rob a casino on the 111th floor of a building with its own moat and only one working elevator? Who would mess with a casino owned by the most dangerous man on the east coast? This girl. I’ve spent the past two months working at the casino, getting to know its routines. The owner picks his extensive security team for their brawn, not their brains, and he has no spare generator-power for surveillance gadgets. I know, from past experience, I can outwit his army of thugs. Now, it’s just a matter of timing. My shift finished an hour ago. I took the foot-ferry with the other employees back to the half-submerged building I’m using as a base. It was the work of minutes to strip off my uniform, stuff it into a black-mold-infested cavity in the wall, and slip into the skintight all-in-one that’ll serve me for the rest of this evening’s adventure. I wrap a flouncy, floor-length, silk skirt, sarong-style, around my waist. I had the matching pink, five-inch heels custom-made by a sweet old man who skillfully hid a small hand-drill in one heel and a hacksaw blade into other, and never asked why. I let my hair down and dab on a bit of face paint. The shoes change my posture entirely. This, as much as the make-up, transforms me from a down-at-heel croupier on the unprofitable early shift into an entitled, high-roller with a life of privilege behind her. Each night this week I’ve made this transformation before taking the upscale Starlit Cruiser back to the sea-level entrance to the casino, to make my preparations. It hasn’t Page 48 of 64
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