Melissa la Cruz - Frozen

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.”

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.

Shakes leaned over, a little too closely.

Nat regarded him warily, worried that he read too much into his earlier win.

“Heard you’re looking for transport. You serious about getting out?” he asked.

She looked around, then nodded imperceptibly. “Ryan Wesson?”

Ryan Wesson. It was the one name that had come up again and again when she’d asked if anyone knew a runner. Well, if anyone can get you out of here, it’s Wes. Wes has got the fastest ship in the Pacific. He’ll get you where you need to go.

Shakes took a sip from his mug. “Not by a long shot,” he said, grinning. “But I do speak for him.”

“Looking for Wesson?” asked a veteran at the table who had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

Nat nodded.

The toothless boy laughed a bitter laugh. “You know where you can find him, miss? Hell. After Santonio, that’s where he should be.”

“Hey, man, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shakes retorted, his face turning red. “You weren’t there, you don’t know what went down.”

Nat didn’t have time for arguments. In a few minutes, Manny would move her to the next table as Shakes had won big on his next hand as well. She had to ask now before she got pulled out of there. Who knew if she would ever get another chance?

Waiting until the eavesdropper turned to the waitress to order a drink, Nat leaned in and whispered, “Look, I don’t care what happened in Texas, I hear he’s the only one who can get me past the fence and into the water.” She pushed his winnings toward him. “So will he do it? I need to leave as soon as possible.”

Shakes waved off the chips, gesturing instead for more points on his Fo-Pro card. “It depends. How lucky have you been lately?”

“THAT HER?” WES ASKED, PEERING THROUGH night-vision ’ocs. The green screen on the binoculars showed a slim, dark-haired girl walking down the street. She wore a long dark coat and a wool cap pulled low on her forehead and a scarf that covered most of her face. He handed the glasses to Shakes, who stood next to him on the balcony.

“Yeah, that’s her.” Shakes nodded.

Wes frowned. Well, what did you know, it was the blackjack dealer from the Loss—the same one who had thrown him off his game, the reason his team had lost faith in him. “You think she’s for real?”