Frozen

Right at the moment, right when his hand was hovering over the platinum chips to take them away, she had caught his eye and stopped him with a look that said, Don’t even think about it.

She hadn’t been fooled by his theatrical heroics or distracted by his flirtatious banter. Not for a second. She knew what they were doing. What he was doing. That he was a fraud, and no hero.

Wes had backed off, startled. The moment was lost, and when he looked down the chips had disappeared. She must have put them back on the casino stack. It was cute how she tried to tip him, too, as if a few heat credits could make up for his loss.

“Come on,” Daran said to his brother. “Let’s go see if we can do better with the play at the Apple,” he said. “I’ll play the hero this time, get it done right,” he said to Wes.

“Can I come?” Farouk asked.

“Sure—you can be lookout,” Daran said. “Shakes—you in? We might need you for muscle; they don’t know us as well at the Apple.”

Shakes looked at Wes and sighed. “Nah, I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Suit yourself,” Daran said.

“You’re going to lose them if you can’t feed them,” Shakes said when the boys had left. “Then what? Without a crew we can’t run any type of play.”

Wes nodded. They would have to leave the city, or join up again, something. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Then he wouldn’t have the luxury of turning down his assignments.

“Something will come up,” Wes said. “Want to try our luck at the lines?” It was humbling, but they had to eat.

“Yeah—why not,” Shakes grumped. They walked through the casino, past the food courts, a myriad of treats available but not to the likes of them. Noodle shops, crepe stands, chic cafes serving coffees and tea sandwiches, five-star gourmet restaurants where reservations had to be booked months in advance. There were floor-to-ceiling tanks, brimming with exotic fish domestically farmed in saltwater pools—pick one and they’d slice it into sashimi while you waited.

Another restaurant boasted delicacies beyond imagination. Quail, pheasant, wild boar, everything organic, grass-fed, free-range. (Where did they range? Wes wondered. He’d heard that the heated enclosures were vast, but how vast could they be?) The tropical fruit display was the hardest to ignore. The colors alone made him stop and stare. He knew the bright reds and yellows were genetically modified for maximum saturation, but it was still a gorgeous sight. The fruit was stored under heavy glass, like diamonds of old, but the shops always left out a few trays to tease passersby with their flowery scent. They passed a chocolate shop selling handmade artisanal candy that cost more than the two of them put together (hired guns had nothing on small-batch truffles).

The food line was about to close, but they made it there in time. As they sat down with their bowls of cheap gruel, Shakes’s pocket began to vibrate. He picked up his phone. “Valez,” he answered. “Uh-huh? Yeah? Okay, I’ll tell him.” He flipped it closed.

“What was that all about?” Wes asked, slurping from his spoon and trying not to retch.

Shakes grinned. “Looks like we got us a job. Some chick’s looking to hire a runner and they hear she’s got credits to burn.”

7

NAT STARED AT THE FOUR PLATINUM CHIPS in her locker. She tried to make them disappear and reappear in her pocket as she had the day before, when she’d nicked them from her table. Casino security was convinced the thief had somehow made off with them, although they didn’t know how. There was nothing on the tapes. She focused on the chips, but nothing happened. They stayed on the metal shelf, unmoving. It was a shame that a mages’ mark wasn’t of much use to anyone, especially the marked themselves. While it had come in handy during a few tough situations, Nat had no idea how to use her power or how to control it; like the voice in her head, it came and went without warning, and if she tried to summon it directly, it was even more elusive. She could feel the monster inside her, feel its anger, impatience, and power; but it came and went like the wind and could abandon her at any moment. Days like today she almost agreed with the zealots on the nets. That the mark was a curse.

She had put feelers out for a runner yesterday, letting people know that she could pay, that she had gotten lucky on a bet, but so far no one had bitten. She put the chips back in her pocket, feeling reassured by their weight next to the small blue stone. If she played her cards right, together they were her ticket out of the city.

At her table her predecessor, Angela, was in the middle of performing the ending ritual—clapping her hands and turning empty palms toward the ceiling to indicate to surveillance that her shift was over.

“You heard about the new ret scans?” Angela asked. She gathered her things and let Nat slide behind the table. “You know, to root out lockhead lenses?”

“Yeah,” Nat said.

“Good thing, can’t have any of that filth around,” Angie sniffed. “You know what they’re calling them now? Rotheads. Get it?”

“Right,” Nat said, averting her eyes. She’d heard the rumors but she didn’t believe them—had never seen any proof to the stories—and she should know. Just more lies and propaganda, just another way to keep the public fearful and submissive.

She dealt the cards but her players left one by one until there was only one guy at her table. It was Thursday, the day before payday, when everyone was poor. Tomorrow the casino would be filled with crowds angling to cash in their paychecks, some of them tossing down their stubs right on the gaming tables. Occasionally someone got lucky, betting it all on some hunch, riding the streak, beating the house at every turn. But that was like having your number come up for a visa to Xian. It hardly ever happened, and when it did, security was on the table so quickly your luck was gone before you knew it.

Nat shuffled the deck, letting the cards make a satisfying rippling sound as they moved from one hand to the other like an accordion, before dealing the next round.

The remaining player at her table was a sloe-eyed boy with a wisp of a beard on his chin, sporting scary- looking tats on his brown arms. A veteran for sure, a bruiser, a bodyguard on his day off, Nat thought. Then the boy smiled, and Nat was struck by how suddenly young he looked, how innocent, even with a malevolent hissing snake on his forearm.

She motioned for him to cut the cards.

The dark-haired boy squinted at her name tag as he did so. “Hi, Nat. I’m Vincent Valez. But everyone calls me Shakes. Oh and I forgot to give you this earlier.” He handed over a worn-out food provision card, his fingers trembling a little, a telltale sign of frostblight. The human body wasn’t meant to live in subzero weather. Most people ended up with a few tremors, while the unluckiest ones lost their eyesight.

“You know we’re not supposed to take these anymore,” she said as she swiped the card through a reader. Everyone in the country was given a Fo-Pro card, which entitled the bearer to the necessary sustenance— powdered soy milk, protein squares, the occasional sugar substitute—the government’s one concession to public welfare, one step above the charity food lines. The cards weren’t supposed to be valid anywhere but the Market Stations, but in New Vegas, anything could be traded for casino chips.

“But I’ll make an exception,” she told him, as his visible disability was hard to ignore.

A few more players took seats at her table and a waitress in a skimpy dress sailed by. “Cocktails?” she sang in a breathy voice.

While the rest of the table placed their order, Nat dealt the next hand, the cards flying off the deck to each spot on their own. She looked around, relieved no one had noticed, and wondered how long it would take them to realize she had no business working in a casino.

Somehow, the ace landed on Shakes’s place, and she watched as he made a killing.

“Thanks.” He winked.

“For what?” She shrugged. If only she could do that all the time.