collapsing into heart-wrenching sobs. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, please don’t shoot!” he begged, and when he looked up, Nat could see what was wrong. His eyes. They were blue, a startling, iridescent hue. His lenses must have slipped off, or he’d taken them off when they burned from the smoke, as she almost did hers. The blue-eyed ones were said to be able to control minds, create illusions. Apparently, this one didn’t have the ability to control minds, or his tears.
He tried to hide his face, tried to cover his eyes with his hands. “Please!”
It was no use.
He died with his blue eyes open, his uniform splattered with blood.
And no one cared.
“It’s all right, everyone, move on, the danger’s passed now. Move along,” the guards said, ushering the survivors to the side, away from the corpses in the middle of the broken casino, as a sanitation and recovery team began cleaning up the mess, moving the tables back upright.
Nat followed the stream of people herded in a corner, knowing what would come next—ret scans and security checks, standard procedure after a disturbance. “Ladies and gentlemen, you know the drill,” an officer announced, holding up his laser.
“Don’t blink,” security officers warned as they flashed their lights. Patrons lined up quietly—this wasn’t the first bombing they’d survived—and several were impatient to get back to their games. Already the craps dealers were calling out numbers again. It was just another day in New Vegas, just another bomb.
“I can’t get a read, you’re going to have to come with us, ma’am,” a guard said to an unfortunate soul slumped by the slot machines. The sallow-faced woman was led to a separate line. Those who failed the scans or carried suspect documentation would be thrown into lockdowns. They would be left to the mercy of the system, left to rot, forgotten, unless a celebrity took a shine to their cause, but lately the mega-rockers were all agitating to restore the ozone. The only magic they believed in was their own charisma.
It was her turn next.
“Evening,” Nat said, as she looked straight into the small red light, willing her voice to remain calm. She told herself she had nothing to fear, nothing to hide. Her eyes were the same as the rest.
The officer was roughly her age—sixteen. He had a row of pimples across his forehead, but his tone was world-weary. Tired as an old man. He kept the beam focused on her eyes until she had no choice but to blink and he had to start over.
“Sorry,” she said, crossing her arms against her chest and struggling to keep her breathing steady. Why was it taking so long? Did he see something she didn’t? She would hunt down the lockhead who’d conjured her rets if he’d proven her false.
The officer finally switched off the light.
“Everything all right?” she asked, as she flipped her long dark hair over one shoulder.
“Perfect.” He leaned closely to read her name tag. “Natasha Kestal. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”
“You’re too kind.” She smiled, thankful for the invisible gray lenses that allowed her to pass the scan.
Nat had gotten the job with fake papers and a favor, and as they waved her through to the employee lockers so she could change into a clean uniform and get back to work, she thanked the unseen stars above, because for now, she was safe.
2
“I CAN’T TAKE THIS JOB.” WES PUSHED the slim manila folder across the table without opening it. Sixteen, with soft, sandy-brown hair and warm brown eyes, he was muscular but lean and wearing a tattered down vest over a threadbare sweater and torn jeans. His face was hard, but his eyes were kind—although more often than not he had a smirk on his face.
He had one now. Wes knew all he needed to about the assignment just from the words PACIFIC RECON typed in boldface Courier across the cover. Lately all the work was in the black waters. There was nothing else. He sighed, leaning back on the plush leather chair. He had been looking forward to a real meal, but the chances of that were slim now that he’d turned down the offer. There were white tablecloths and real silverware. But it was still inside a gambling hall and every corner blinked with tiny lights as slots clinked and beeped and coins dropped into buckets.
Wes was from New Vegas and found the sound of casino clamor soothing. The Loss was still recovering from that spectacular bombing that had torn the place in half a few weeks before. A grid of gas heaters were strung across the ceiling as a temporary fix; their fiery glow the only defense against the never-ending winter outside. Snow was coming down hard, and Wes watched the dense flakes vaporize, each flake sizzling like oil in a frying pan as it hit the grid. He brushed back his hair as an errant snowflake drifted through the mesh to land on his nose.
He shivered—he never could get used to the cold; even as a boy he’d been teased for being too warm- blooded. He was wearing several layers of shirts underneath his sweater, the ghetto way to keep warm when you couldn’t afford self-heating clothing powered by a fusion battery. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can’t.”
Bradley ignored him and motioned the waitress over. “Two steaks. Tuscan style, Wagyu. The biggest you got,” he ordered. “I like my beef massaged,” he told Wes.
Beef was a rarity, unaffordable to the general population. Sure, there was a lot of meat around—whale, walrus, reindeer, if you could stomach it—but only the heat-elite ate beef anymore. Especially since the only cattle left were nurtured in expensive temperature-controlled stables. The cow that died to make his steak probably lived a better life than he did, Wes thought. It had probably been warm.
He locked eyes with his dinner companion. “You need another CEO kidnapped? I’m your boy. But I can’t do this.”
As a former Marine sergeant, Wes had headed one of the most sought-after mercenary teams in the city. Correction: one of the
“Wesson, be reasonable,” Bradley said, his voice icy. “You know you need this job. Take it. You’re one of the best we’ve ever had, especially after that victory in Texas. Shame you left us so soon. I’ve got a hundred guys champing at the bit to take this gig, but I thought I’d throw you a bone. Heard you haven’t worked in a while.”
Wes smiled, acknowledging the truth of the man’s words. “Except some assignments aren’t worth the trouble,” he said. “Even I need to be able to sleep at night.” He’d learned as much from his stint in the army, especially after what happened in Santonio.
“These marked factions who resist treatment and registration continue to pose a danger, and they need to be dealt with accordingly,” the older man said. “Look what they did to this place.”
Wes grunted. Sure looked like they found someone to do the casino hit he’d turned down, but what did he know. He only knew as much as the rest of them—that after the ice came, dark hair and dark eyes were the norm, and the rare blue- or green- or yellow-eyed babies were born with strange marks on their bodies.
The marked children could do things—read minds, make things move without touching them, sometimes even predict the future. Enchanters, they were called, warlocks, “lockheads” and “chanters” in the popular slang.
The others who came out of the ice were smallmen, grown men the size of toddlers who were gifted with rare talents for survival, able to hide in plain sight or forage for food where none could be found; sylphs, a race of
