Melissa la Cruz - Frozen

In Vegas, there was always another game.

“HEY, MANNY,” NAT CALLED, MOTIONING to her pit boss.

“Yeah?” Manny counted out a roll of five hundred watts as he approached. There was the New Vegas that was run by the real-estate overlords and their ambiguous military connections, and then there was the Vegas that was still Vegas—run by the mob, by the gangsters, by people like Manny, who kept the place packed, the patrons happy, the drinks potent.

“You know anyone with a connection to a ship?” she whispered. “A runner?”

Manny shook his head and wet his finger with his tongue, continuing to count the money. “Why you wanna leave New Veg? You just got here. This is the best place around,” he said, motioning to the busy casino. “Where else is there?”

The man had a point. After the world ended, in a rush to dominate the earth’s remaining resources, the country had expanded its borders, colonizing and renaming regions as it did so. Africa became New Rhodes, Australia divided into Upper Pangaea and New Crete, South America—a wasteland called simply Nuevo Residuos. There were a few independent sectors left, like the Xian Empire, of course, the only country that had the foresight to preserve its agricultural industry by spearheading the indoor-farming movement before the ice came. But what was left of the rest of the world—swaths of Russia and most of Europe—was overrun by pirates and led by madmen.

Visas were more expensive than a working space heater, more costly than clean water. Acquiring one was near impossible, not to mention the endless blizzards that made travel precarious and expensive.

Nat shrugged. “C’mon, Manny, you know everyone in this snow globe.” She had asked around, but her dealer friends laughed in her face. They all did, from the valets from Nuevo Cabo, to the waitresses from Mesa Sol, to the topless dancers from nearby Henderson. There was no way. They all told her to forget about it, those who tried to jump the borders were crazy, and you never saw them again. The only thing the Vegas hands knew was that jumpers were unlucky, and unlucky had no place in the casinos.

The pit boss tucked the roll into his back pocket, sucked his teeth, and worked a toothpick through his molars. “No, baby. Not gonna happen, don’t want to see you shot in the head, floating in that black water. There’s pirates—scavengers—out there, too, don’t you know? Taking slaves, selling ’em to the outlaw territories.” He shook his head. “Besides, remember what happened to Joe? Bounty hunters find out you’re itching to jump, they’ll turn you in for the reward for snitching.” That was what everyone believed—that Joe had been turned in for blood money. Jumper watt, someone had snitched. “Besides, you need mucho credit to pay a runner.”

She sighed, counting her small stack. Tips had been steady all evening. She had almost twenty credits, not enough for a proper heat suit, but maybe a pair of those seal-fur gloves or a cup of real chicken soup. She dealt the next hand. All day she’d had a good, steady stream of players, a group celebrating a bachelor party, a few pros who made their living from the tables.

“Slow night?” a voice asked.

Nat looked up to see a guy standing across from her. Tall, with caramel-colored hair and honey-brown eyes. He smiled and she thought she recognized him from somewhere. Her breath caught at the sight of his handsome face, with his kind eyes and somewhat familiar mien. She swore she knew him but couldn’t remember where from. He was dressed in layers, and she noted the worn edges of his sleeves, and the burns on his jeans that could only have come from driving the blood tracks. She didn’t think she knew any of the death-wish boys, but she could be wrong. Whoever he was, she sensed mischief from the way he hovered around the edges of her table.

“Can I deal you in?” she asked in her crisp dealer tone. “If not, you’ll have to step back. Casino rules, sorry.”

“Maybe. What’s the ante?” he drawled, even though the neon sign was blinking on the table. Fifty heat credits to play.

She pointed at it with a frown.

“That all?” he asked, all smooth and suave. “Maybe I’ll stay, make sure these clowns here don’t give you a hard time.” He smiled as he motioned to the players seated around her table.

“I can take care of myself, thanks,” Nat said coolly. She knew the type. She had no patience for pretty boys. He probably broke a dozen hearts just by walking across the casino floor. If he thought she would be one of them, he was wrong.

“I’m sure you can,” he said, shooting her a sideways grin. “What time do you get out of here? What say you and I . . .”

“My shift ends at midnight,” she said, cutting him off. “You got enough to buy me a glass of water, I’ll meet you at the bar.”

“Water. A purist.” He winked. “My kind of girl. Done.”

She laughed. There was no way he could afford a glass of water. He couldn’t even afford a proper winter coat. Clean water was precious but synthetics were cheap and sanitary, so like most solid citizens, her only choice was to drink Nutri, a supposedly vitamin-and-nutrient-rich, sweet-tasting concoction that was spiked with faint traces of mood stabilizers, just the thing to keep the population obedient. The chemicals gave her a headache, and more than anything, she just wanted a taste of pure, clear water. Once a week she saved up enough for a glass, savoring every drop.

“Hey, man, either you’re in or you’re out. Holding up the game here,” a young day-tripper snarled, interrupting. He was a flashy kind, the type of player who tried to flirt with the dealer or when that didn’t work, complained loudly whenever someone made a move he didn’t approve of—“That was my ace!” or “You’re messing up the shuffle.”

“Relax, relax,” the new boy said, but he didn’t take a step back.

“Sir, I’m really going to have to ask you to move,” she told him, as she laid down her hand. Eighteen. She made to collect the players’ chips.

“Twenty-one! Woot!” crowed the annoying player.

Nat stared at his cards. She could have sworn he’d held a ten and a six, but now his six of spades was an ace of clubs. How did that happen? Was he a lockhead? A hidden mage? Had he figured out a way to cheat the iron detectors as she had? She sucked in her breath as she calculated his bet, which meant a payout of— She shook her head. No way. No one was that lucky. The house always wins.

“What are you waiting for, girly? Pay out!” He slapped the table and the chips wobbled on the felt.

He was a cheat, she was sure of it, even as she began to count out four platinum chips on the green felt, and she hesitated before pushing them his way.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask for a rollback,” she said, meaning she’d have to ask security to check the cameras, make sure nothing funny had happened. But when she looked around, Manny and the other supervisors were nowhere to be found. What was going on?

“Pay out, or else,” the kid said in a low, menacing voice.

Now Nat saw that he was holding a gun underneath his jacket, and it was pointed right at her.

Before she could protest, there was a swift and sudden movement, as the handsome boy slammed the guy facedown on the table and pinned his arms behind his back, effectively disarming him in one go.

Nat watched with grudging admiration as he reached into the thief’s pocket. “Beretta. Old-school, good taste,” he said, laying the gun on the felt. He emptied the other one and a flurry of aces fell to the carpet. Nat understood now. The kid had used her interest in the good-looking boy to switch the cards and win the chips.