An alarm rips through the air, and Hale flips the lid of his toolbox closed, sliding calloused fingers into worn grooves on the handle before heading towards the stairwell. He falls into line and the technicians climb rusted steps from the bowels of the city sewage into fading daylight. 

 

Hale’s eyes fix on the brand on the nape in front of him, tracing curves of three clovers. His free hand twitches, and he fights the urge to touch the two clovers seared beneath his own hairline. When the Bridge Order ended the Last War, the city was cut into four groups. Each Suit has a purpose and a place, and each citizen earns theirs after drawing a single playing card on their tenth birthday; the higher the card, the higher the position. 

 

They trudge through shift processing gates. An officer hands Hale his time card. He glances at the seven silver clovers on her dark green jacket before punching out for the day. She snatches the card and then runs a thin brandlight along the clovers on Hale’s neck. It flashes green, and the gate opens to release him. 

 

The Bridge Order places Spades at the top, granting lucrative roles in politics and technology. Hearts follow, controlling medicine and education for the city. Next come Diamonds, agriculturalists, engineers, and entrepreneurs keeping the city functional but lacking the social capital to enjoy benefits of their efforts. Last are Clubs, their clover brands sealing fates as voiceless laborers.

 

Hale makes his way to the mag-rail station, head down. Once inside, Hale stands beneath the Clubs hologram, making himself small as Nines and Tens push to the front of the line. Within each Suit, the value of the card dictates power. Kings are leaders, Twos are pawns. 

 

The Ante program hierarchy was wildly detailed in their approach. It is rare for citizens in different Suits to interact with one another. Thus, Hale is surprised to see a man waiting in the section for Diamonds, so often disused in this part of the city that its lights are dark. The man stands tall in his shiny suit, unbothered by shadows. 

 

An express train roars through the station without stopping, the man’s head following the rush of wind. He catches Hale’s eye, smiling broadly at him. As the next train approaches, the lights dim to announce a stop, and Hale’s eyes are drawn to the nine ruby diamonds on the man’s tie clip. 

 

The doors open and the Club line jostles in a chaotic attempt to board. Hale is lucky to squeeze inside, fighting towards the back of the car and flopping against the frame. The train sets into motion, the packed-in Clubs shuddering against one another. Hale turns towards the window between cars, and blinks rapidly as he sees the second car’s only passenger is the Diamond. This strikes Hale as odd, and he wonders why the man chose this train heading towards the outskirts instead of the next, bound for the edge of the wall separating the upper and lower Suits.

 

The train roars over the river, and the Clubs car shakes. The Diamond waves to keep Hale’s attention. He taps his ruby tie clip several times, and then shakes a finger. Slowly, he turns in the seat and brushes his fingers through his hair. Beneath salt and pepper curls hides a single clover.

 

In nearly a century of the Ante program, no Ace cards have been drawn - or at least none that have been made public. In shadowy corners of dive bars, Clubs pass the time by spinning tales about Aces being spies for the high cards, securing control of the city. Hale has listened to these plastered poets of possibility while gulping down swill, drowning the manufactured monotony of his life in exhilarated inebriation; he knows they are just drunken tales to distract from the suffering around them. 

 

And yet, here sits an Ace of his own Suit, masquerading as a Diamond. Undetected among his chosen peers despite the brand marking him as lesser than.

 

When the Diamond turns back around, he holds Hale’s gaze and opens the briefcase, raising it until Hale can see inside. 

 

A broad assortment of jewelry fills the silk-lined compartment, gemstones sparkling. Diamonds and hearts and spades of all values, enough to permanently alter the lives of every Club in this car. Hale lifts a hand and presses it against the window separating them. The thrum of nearby Clubs grows muted, the press of grimy uniforms against his back is lighter. Hale’s head feels empty, as if his brain has been storing a false reality and this man has scooped it all out in preparation for some new deal. 

 

The train begins slowing as it enters the next station. The man pulls a card from the pocket inside his jacket. He briefly waves it at Hale, and then tucks it into the briefcase before he snaps it shut. The cars open, and the Diamond stands. He pauses and pats his hidden brand with one finger before disappearing into the station.

 

Hale fights his way out, shoving past others who call out at him. The service alert pings as he jumps into the second car. He slides calloused fingers into the smooth grip of the briefcase, clutching it close, and leaps back onto the platform as the doors swing shut. Hale’s chest heaves with adrenaline and anticipation. He sets the briefcase on a counter far from the main stairs of the station, and opens it.

 

The card is a shade of blue he’s never seen, but it makes him think of his grandmother describing the sky before the Last War. 

 

It reads: It is time to up the Ante. The one who controls the bottom, controls the top.

 

Breathing heavily, Hale reaches for a wristwatch. Onyx twinkles as he traces ten spades. He pockets it and the card before closing the case. He may be a Two of Clubs today, but he's no longer blind to chance.