A Quantified Chance

What if luck could be proven scientifically?

‘The Allegory of Fortune’ by Salvator Rosa (1658)

Miriam set her coffee on the metal table and studied the man through the observation window. He sat alone in the waiting room, sipping a cup of coffee. Construction worker, she deduced from the deep tan and the worn Blundstones. His unruly blonde hair hung in need of a trim, and a scar curved along his left temple, resembling an inverted cane.

Nothing remarkable about him, except that yesterday he'd fallen fifteen meters from a scaffold and walked away with a few bruises.

— Subject's heart rate was sixty-two when I measured it, Dr. Bowman said behind her.

— Remarkably calm.

— He doesn't know why he's here.

— Does anyone? Bowman snorted as he logged the details into the server.

Miriam didn't respond. On her tablet, she pulled up his file: Liam McAllister, 28, scaffolder. No university education. Minor police record: PNDs, drug possession mostly. And a statistical anomaly flag that had triggered her department's interest.

The Department for Strategic Probability Assessment had been operating for nearly a decade now, identifying and studying statistical outliers in the population. What had begun as academic research into decision-making patterns had evolved into something more militarized under Harrington's leadership. Three previous subjects had passed through these rooms in Miriam's two years here. She never learned what happened to them after the testing phase.

— Right. I'm going in, she said.

She entered the testing room, and the man looked up. His eyes were blue, wary.

— Mr. McAllister? I'm Dr. Rahman.

— Liam, he said, setting down the coffee and standing up to shake her hand. Just Liam is fine. His Geordie accent was thick, almost performative.

He sat and grinned with one side of his mouth, exposing a chipped incisor that, strangely enough, enhanced his rugged charm rather than diminishing it.

— Liam, then. She sat across from him. Thank you for agreeing to these tests.

He shrugged.

— Not like I had much choice. Your mate in the suit said it was necessary following unusual occurrences.

— Well, you survived a fall that should have killed you.

— I landed on some foam insulation. I was lucky, that's all.

Miriam made a note on her tablet.

— Two weeks ago, you won five thousand pounds at the Grand National. Would you say you're generally lucky?

He laughed, a short, harsh sound.

— Depends what you mean by lucky.

— Statistical improbabilities in your favour.

Liam considered this, rubbing the scar on his temple.

— Sometimes. Other times, not so much.

— Tell me about the scar.

— Years ago, on the strip in Marbella. Guy comes at me with a broken bottle.

He traced the mark with his finger.

— Slips in a puddle of beer just as he swings and woosh!, goes head over heels, the bugger. Could've taken me eye out, ended up with this instead.

He exhaled.

— Lucky and unlucky, see?

— Very well. We're going to run some tests today. Nothing too complicated.

— And you're paying me for this, yeah? Four hundred quid, your mate said.

— Four fifty, actually.

His eyebrows rose slightly.

— That'll do me, pet.

The first test was simple: coin flips. Miriam handed Liam a fifty-pence coin and asked him to call it in the air.

— Heads, he said as the first coin spun upward.

It landed heads.

— Tails.

Tails.

— Heads.

Heads.

Behind the one-way glass, Dr. Bowman made notes. After a hundred and fifty flips, Liam had correctly called seventy six.

— Interesting, Miriam said. Do you look at rotations?

— Nah. Just guessing, Liam said, but his eyes didn't meet hers.

She led him to another room containing six identical wooden boxes.

— One of these contains a star, she explained. Find it.

Liam approached the boxes, hovering his hand over each one without touching them. After a moment, he opened the fourth box. Empty.

— Try again, Miriam said.

He moved to the second box. Empty.

— Hmm. He frowned, moving to the fifth box. Inside was a red ball.

They repeated the test with the ball in different boxes. Over ten trials, Liam found the ball on his first try twice, his second try four times, and his third try three times. Only once did he need four attempts.

— Not perfect, Dr. Bowman observed afterward. But far beyond statistical probability.

— He's trying to hide it, Miriam said. Did you notice? He deliberately fails sometimes.

— Why would he do that?

Miriam thought of the wariness in Liam's eyes.

— I think he suspects something.

During the lunch break, Miriam watched Liam in the cafeteria. He sat alone, methodically working through a ham and cheese sandwich. Three bites, sip of Lucozade, repeat.

He consumed his meal with the efficiency of someone who regarded food merely as sustenance, a necessary but mundane ritual.

She approached with her own tray – a chicken caesar’s salad she had no appetite for.

— May I? she asked, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

He looked up, surprised.

— Aye, on you go.

She sat, carefully unspooling the cutlery from the paper napkin. The led lights above them made everything look sickly and artificial.

— Do people usually watch you eat? Liam asked suddenly.

Miriam looked up.

— I'm sorry?

— You're still testing me. Observing. Even now.

She set down her fork.

— Force of habit.

— What are you looking for? Even when I'm just eating a sandwich?

— Patterns, I guess, she said before she could stop herself. Tells.

— And mine are special somehow?

Miriam smiled and pushed a crouton around her plate.

— Maybe.

— You don't like working here, do you? Liam said.

She stiffened.

— What makes you say that?

— The way you hold yourself like. As if you're always waiting for permission. The way you don't eat your lunch.

Miriam looked down at her untouched salad, then back at Liam. For the first time, she felt like the one being studied.

— I'm a behavioural psychologist working for the government, she said quietly. I’d say it's a good position.

— Maybe, but not what you wanted.

— How do you know what I want?

Liam smiled and took another bite of his sandwich.

— So what do you really want, Dr. Rahman?

The question caught her off guard. When was the last time anyone had asked?

— I, uh… I want to understand how people make decisions. How patterns form in chaos.

— And now you want to test my patterns? See if there’s meaning in my…chaos?

She looked at him. Behind the wariness in his eyes, she saw something unexpected: curiosity. Not just about the tests, but about her.

— Yes, she said. I guess so.

Liam leaned back into his chair.

— Well, I’ll try and do me best then.

In the afternoon, they used the maze, a room with floor tiles that triggered a mild electric shock when stepped on, except for a hidden safe path through.

— Find your way across without getting shocked, Miriam instructed.

Liam stood at the entrance, studying the identical white tiles.

— How am I supposed to know which ones are safe?

— That's the test. Don’t overthink it.

He took a tentative step forward onto the first tile. No shock. Another step. Safe. A third. He winced as a small shock buzzed through his bare foot.

— Sorry, Miriam said, her voice catching slightly. She cleared her throat. Start again.

Liam returned to the beginning. This time, he moved more deliberately, pausing before each step as if listening for something. He made it eight tiles in before receiving another shock.

On his third attempt, he made it all the way across with only one shock, near the end.

— Not bad, Miriam said.

— I was hoping ah'd get another shock, to be honest, Liam said with a wink. So, is there anything interesting about my patterns?

— We don't know yet. We need more data.

He gave a slight nod.

— I trust you'll let me know if I there is.

She looked down at her tablet, then back up at him. For a moment, she considered telling him the truth. About Harrington, about the department's real purpose, about how her research had been twisted into something she barely recognised.

— I will. I promise. She said.

Something unspoken lingered in the air between them, and Liam gave a nearly invisible nod, as if he grasped a depth beyond her words.

At the end of the day, Dr. Greaves, the head of department, came to the observation room. He wore civilian clothes with military precision: perfect creases, exact angles.

— Well? he asked, scanning the data on Miriam's tablet.

— Luck Quotient of approximately 81%, she said. Well above baseline.

— Useful?

It was always his first question. Not interesting or unusual, but ‘useful’ — as if human beings were tools to be evaluated for their utility.

— Potentially, she said. His anomaly is inconsistent but significant.

Greaves nodded, checking his watch.

— The PM has requested a report in a fortnight. We need to crack on.

— I'm aware of the timeline.

— Harrington wants genetic samples.

Miriam’ s fingers tightened on her tablet.

— We've barely established baseline parameters.

—You've had two days.

— Standard protocol is a week of observation before invasive procedures.

Greaves looked at her with the blank expression she'd come to dread.

— This isn't standard, Dr. Rahman. This is priority. He checked his watch again. Three more days. Then Harrington gets his samples.

— What exactly does Harrington intend to do with the genetic luck markers if he isolates them?

Greaves' expression hardened.

— Need-to-know basis, Doctor.

— I'm leading the behavioral assessment. I need to know.

He sighed, checking that they were alone.

— If we can isolate the genetic components responsible for probability manipulation, we can potentially screen for it in recruits or even modify existing agents.

— You're talking about creating luck-enhanced operatives?

— I’ve said enough, Miriam.

She felt cold despite the overheated room.

— And the test subjects? The originals?

— Will be compensated according to protocol, he said flatly. Now, can we proceed, please?

After he left, Miriam stayed in the darkened observation room, watching as a technician escorted Liam to the building exit. On the security monitor, she saw him pause outside, looking up at the gray Newcastle sky. Then he turned and looked directly at the hidden camera, as if he knew exactly where it was.

She shivered, though the room wasn't cold.

Liam returned the next morning, and the morning after that. The Department put him up in a nearby hotel, kept paying him generously, a weekly stipend that exceeded his construction salary. ‘Consulting fees,’ the paperwork called it.

On the third day, Miriam found herself lingering in the cafeteria during lunch, watching Liam from across the room. He ate the same thing: ham sandwich, crisps, Lucozade. No dessert. No coffee.

She approached his table again.

— Three days. My pattern must be pleasing you, doctor.

— Yes. She didn't bother pretending otherwise.

— How?

— Your statistical anomalies are significant.

— Anomalies? What do you mean?

— You're improbably lucky, Liam, but in a pattern we haven't seen before. It's inconsistent. Sometimes you seem to control it, other times not.

— And you don’t believe it’s just chance?

— You called seventy six from a hundred and fifty correct calls on the coin flips the other day. That’s not chance, it’s a statistical aberration of astronomical proportions. Almost impossible.

— But If it's not chance, what is it?

Miriam looked around and bent towards him.

— There's a physicist, Martha Stephenson, who wrote a controversial paper on what she called 'probability conservation.' The idea that luck isn't created or destroyed, just... redistributed.

— I don’t understand.

— Think of it as energy. Every time the coin lands in your favour, someone else eats the loss. Every time you avoid a falling brick, it hits someone else instead.

— So, I'm stealing luck?

— Or channeling it. Dr. Stephenson theorised that certain individuals might act as... conduits for probability redistribution. They don't create the luck; they just direct its flow, consciously or unconsciously.

Liam frowned.

— What’s up?

— Makes sense.

— What do you mean?

— People around me get hurt. Not always. But enough. When I was sixteen I started working for me dad’s company. He was a scaffolder, taught me everything I know. A top man really. Then one day, a few months in, I woke up with a bad feeling. I just didn’t want to go in that day, and pretended to be sick. Well, a lorry t-boned dad’s van on his way to work. He died on the spot.

— I'm sorry.

— It was if I knew something bad would happen. And yet, I didn’t tell him. Everyone always told me how lucky I was to survive. I didn't feel lucky then. He looked at her directly. I loved me dad. He was the whole world to me, you know?

Miriam took a deep breath.

— And that's when you started trying to understand it? Your luck?

Liam nodded slowly.

— Spent years figuring out how to control it. At first, I was terrified of it. Then I learned to just... accept it was part of me. Like learning to drive, you know? Dangerous if you don't know what you're doing, but useful once you get the hang of it.

— So during these tests--

He gave her a half-smile.

— Let's just say I'm not always showing my full hand. Just like you, Dr Rahman. Right?

Miriam’s cheeks flushed. She shook her head.

— Just tell me the truth. What do you want from me?

— You can trust me. We’re just running some tests for a nationwide study. Nothing shady about it, Liam.

He exhaled slowly. His eyes met hers, held for a moment longer than was comfortable.

— Well, he said finally, I guess it beats grafting all day on a building site, don’t it?

That afternoon, as the test sequence continued, Miriam found herself watching Liam's hands. They were worker's hands, callused, strong, honest. But they moved with unexpected grace as he completed each task. There was something about his movements that suggested both deliberation and chance — as if he were both creating and following a pattern only he could see.

— You're staring, he said, not looking up from the test apparatus.

— Professional observation.

— Aye. Is that what they call it? He glanced up, caught her eye. You've been watching my hands for ten minutes.

Miriam felt heat rise to her cheeks.

— They're expressive. Hands can reveal micro gestures that indicate cognitive processes.

— Or maybe you just like my hands.

She pursed her lips.

— Let's continue with the test, please.

But something had shifted between them, a boundary crossed, or perhaps just acknowledged. The professional distance she'd maintained was eroding. Dangerous, she thought. For both of them.

That night, after Liam had gone, Miriam stayed late in her office. The building hummed with the quiet energy of night shifts and automated systems. She reviewed the day's data, looking for patterns in Liam's responses.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Greaves:

— Harrington tomorrow. 9 AM. Subject prepared.

She set down the phone, the tremor in her hand more pronounced now. She'd been postponing this moment, finding reasons for more baseline tests, more observation. But time had run out.

Tomorrow they would take blood, tissue samples, genetic material. The first step toward a possible replication. Toward weaponisation of something they didn't understand.

She looked at her reflection in the darkened office window. A woman she barely recognised looked back. Hair pulled tight, expression controlled, eyes tired. When had she become this person? This functionary who followed protocols without question?

Her gaze shifted to the security monitor on her desk. It showed the empty corridor outside, the testing room where Liam would sit tomorrow, the exit doors with their blinking alarm systems.

She sat for a long time, watching the empty halls, thinking about free will and choices and the thin line between complicity and survival.

The next morning, Liam arrived looking tired, shadows under his eyes.

— Rough night? Miriam asked as she led him not to the usual testing room, but to a smaller medical suite.

— Really odd dreams, he said. About this place. About the tests.

— Do you want to stop? We can stop if don’t feel up to it.

He hesitated.

— No, I’m good. I’m better now.

They reached the medical suite. Dr. Harrington was already there: tall, thin, with wire-rimmed glasses and the perpetually distracted air of someone whose mind worked faster than the world around him. Greaves hovered uncomfortable next to him.

— This is Dr. Harrington, Miriam explained, her voice carefully neutral. And this is Dr Greaves. He'll be performing some physical tests today.

Liam took in the medical equipment, the sample containers, the forms arranged neatly on a steel tray.

— What kind of tests?

— Standard medical procedure, Greaves said without looking up from his tablet. Blood work, tissue samples. Nothing to concern yourself with.

— Nobody mentioned blood tests. I’m not a big fan of needles.

Greaves looked at him, blinking as if surprised to be addressed directly by the test subject.

— The consent forms you signed on arrival cover these procedures. Please roll up your sleeve, mr McCallister. I can assure you you won’t feel a thing.

— What if I say no?

There was a silence. Miriam felt sweat prickle along her spine.

— We would be-- disappointed, Harrington said finally. Cooperation is appreciated and rewarded. Non-cooperation is... less optimal.

— For whom?

— For everyone involved.

— I’m not sure.

— Do you really want to know what we do here, Mr. Carter? Harrington said.

— Finally. I’ve been waiting for someone to tell it as it is all week.

Miriam’s heart sank.

— We protect British interests through, shall we say, unconventional means. These days threats can't be addressed with guns or diplomacy. Some advantages can't be secured through conventional channels anymore.

— And my good fortune could help you with that.

— Your good fortune, Mr McCallister, could serve King and country, Harrington said, leaning forward. Your particular talent, this 'good fortune,' as you call it, could be Britain's strategic edge in a very uncertain world.

Liam laughed.

— How?

— Imagine an intelligence officer who never gets caught, or trade negotiators who always get the better deal, or soldiers who never step on landmines.. His voice softened. Your fortune could save thousands of lives. Prevent wars. Ensure British prosperity for generations.

— And cause as many tragedies at the same time ?

Liam looked at Miriam again.

— Tell him about what that physicist said, dr Rahman.

Miriam felt the tension in the room rise. Harrington's gaze shifted to her, suspicious.

— Dr. Rahman, is there a problem? Has there been a security breach? Greaves said.

— No, sir. Miriam hesitated, there's a theory, she began carefully. By Dr. Martha Stephenson from Cambridge. She proposed a model called probability conservation.

— Dr. Rahman, this is hardly the time for academic digressions, Greaves cut in.

— Let her speak, Liam said, his voice quiet but firm.

Harrington raised an eyebrow but nodded for her to continue.

— Dr. Stephenson suggested that statistical anomalies like Mr. McAllister's aren't creating luck out of nothing. The universe maintains equilibrium. For every improbable positive outcome, there must be an equal negative elsewhere. She took a breath. If you redirect probability in one person's favor, someone else bears the cost.

Liam watched her, his blue eyes intent.

— So if I never step on a landmine, someone else does? If I win at the races, someone else loses their house payment? Greaves said.

— It's more complex than that, but essentially, yes. The effect appears to concentrate around proximity. People near the probability anomaly experience the inverse effect most strongly.

Harrington scoffed.

— Unproven metaphysics. No peer-reviewed studies support such hypothesis.

— Because it's nearly impossible to test, Miriam said. You'd need a large sample size of probability manipulators, and they're exceptionally rare.

— Which is precisely why Mr. McAllister's cooperation is so valuable, Harrington said, turning back to Liam. With your help, we could actually test these theories properly. Scientific advancement and national security, hand in hand.

Greaves cleared his throat.

— Dr. Rahman's theories aside, we have a schedule to maintain. The samples, please.

Miriam saw it then, a shift in Liam's expression. Something calculating and calm settled behind his eyes. He glanced at the equipment tray, then at the exit door, measuring distances and angles like a pool player lining up an impossible shot.

— Alright, he said finally, rolling up his sleeve. Let's get on with it.

As Greaves stepped forward with a syringe, Liam looked directly at Miriam. In that fleeting moment, she saw something in his face, like an absolute certainty.

— You know, he said conversationally as Harrington swabbed his arm, my gran used to say that luck isn't something you have; it's something you are.

Greaves didn't look up.

— Fascinating folk wisdom.

The tests took longer than expected. Greaves couldn't find a vein on the first try. Or the second. Equipment malfunctioned. Samples were contaminated. Harrington grew increasingly frustrated.

— This is absurd, he snapped after a vial of blood was dropped for the second time. It's as if-- He stopped, looking at Liam with sudden suspicion.

— As if what? Liam asked innocently.

— As if you’re causing all this.

— Imagine that!

Miriam watched from the corner, smiling.

By the time they finished, it was late afternoon. Harrington left with his precious samples, muttering about incompetent assistants and schedule delays.

Miriam walked Liam to the building exit. They didn't speak until they reached the security doors.

— Strange day, Liam said. All those accidents.

— Very strange, Miriam said.

— Almost as if someone was having an unlucky day.

— Or someone else was having a lucky one.

Their eyes met briefly.

— Same time tomorrow? Liam asked.

Miriam nodded.

— Nine o'clock.

But she knew, and suspected he knew too, that there would be no tomorrow. Not here.

The next day, Liam didn't show up for testing. Miriam called his hotel, but he'd checked out the previous evening. His stipend remained uncollected.

— Find him, Harrington ordered when she reported the disappearance. We need more data before we can proceed with the replication trials.

— I wonder what made him change his mind so quickly. Something happened.

— Maybe he got lucky, she suggested, with just enough irony to make Harrington glare at her.

They searched. Facial recognition scans. Financial transaction monitoring. But Liam seemed to have vanished.

Three weeks later, Greaves officially classified him as ‘unrecoverable’ and redirected resources to Harrington's genetic research. They still had blood samples, tissue cultures, DNA sequences. The man himself was a convenience, not a necessity.

But the samples proved unusable. Contamination. Degradation. Equipment failures.

Miriam was called into Greaves' office on a gray Tuesday morning. She knew what was coming before he spoke.

— Your position is being eliminated, he said without preamble. Budget constraints. Your final day will be Friday.

She nodded, feeling strangely calm.

— I understand.

— Your security clearance has already been revoked. IT will monitor your computer access until your departure.

Another nod.

— That will be all, Dr. Rahman.

She stood, smoothing her skirt with steady hands. At the door, she paused.

— Sir? What would have really happened to him? If we’d isolated the luck quotient from his DNA?

Greaves looked genuinely puzzled.

— He’d have been compensated according to protocol.

— And then?

— And then nothing. What the hell else would happen?

She said nothing, just nodded a final time and left.

A year later, Miriam sat in a university coffee shop, reviewing student papers. After the Department, she'd found a teaching position – lower pay, but work that let her sleep at night. Her research was her own again, focused on decision-making patterns in natural environments.

A man at the counter caught her eye. Blonde hair, medium build. For a moment, she thought it was Liam. It wasn't. This happened often now; she saw him everywhere.

The television murmured in the background, barely audible until the news anchor's tone shifted.

— Diplomatic breakthrough that observers are calling 'extraordinarily fortuitous.' This marks the third unexpected international success for British negotiators this quarter...

Miriam's pen paused mid-comment. She looked up as footage played of smiling diplomats shaking hands, the Prime Minister's familiar face beaming at the edge of the frame.

— leading some analysts to suggest Britain has reversed its recent run of bad luck on the global stage...

Miriam's marker leaked, a red stain spreading across her student's paper in all directions. She dabbed at the stain with a tissue, spreading it further.

Outside, rain streaked the windows.