Frozen hod-1

by Melissa de la Cruz

  When his father died in hospice, a shriveled twenty-nine-year-old man, Wes was orphaned.

  He was nine years old and alone.

  The world had ended long before the snows came, his father liked to say. It had ended after the Great Wars, ended after the Black Floods, the Big Freeze only the latest catastrophe. The world was always ending. The point was to survive whatever came next.

  Wes had promised his boys work, had promised them food, had promised them they would eat tonight. He had also promised himself he would never go back there, never do anything so stupid and dangerous again. But there he was. Back at the death races, so named because to drive one of the beat-up jalopies in the game was to risk everything. The tracks ran through the carcasses of old casinos on the street level. The cars were patched-up wrecks with souped-up engines, although once in a while they were able to find an old Ferrari or a Porsche with an engine that could still zoom.

  “Thought you said you were done,” said Dre, the gangster who ran the track, when he saw Wes.

  “Things change,” Wes said grimly. “How much?”

  “Ten if you win, nickel if you place. Nothing if you don’t.”

  “Fine.” He’d always been good at being fast. He could drive fast, he could run fast, he even talked fast. In a way, it was a relief to do something that came easily to him.

  Wes got in a car. No helmet, no seat belt. No rules except to try to stay alive, to try not to crash into one of the walls, or into the glass panels, or to flip off the ice onto another car. The cars were named for the great racehorses of old. Ajax. Man o’ War. Cigar. Barbaro. Secretariat. He looked up at the boards that would broadcast the race to the OTB network—his odds were low and he felt gratified at that, that the bookies remembered him, that they bet that he would live. When the checkered flag was raised, Wes revved up the engine and flew down the course.

  The course took him past the city’s relics, the Olden Ugg, Rah’s, and R Queens, ending on the corner where the neon cowboy waved his hat.

  There were a few cars ahead of him, and Wes decided to keep up with the pack, make his move on the final round, best not to be the lead car—somehow the lead always ended up in fourth place. Finally, it was time. Only one more car in front of him. The yellow flag was flying, meaning to use caution; the ice was probably more slippery than usual. He slammed the gas pedal and muscled his way to the lead. The other driver saw it coming and tried to block his way, but his wheels slipped on the ice and his car slammed against Wes’s, sending both of them against the wall. Wes’s car scraped the ice on its right wheels, and flipped up once, twice, and he hit his head on the roof and fell back to his seat with a crash. The other car was a fireball at the end of the lane, but since his own car was still running, Wes gunned the engine and the car reared up and shot across the finish line.

  The race was over. The engine finally died, sputtering, the wheels spinning on ice, but it was all right.

  He’d survived.

  Wes slid out through the window, his cheeks red, his heart pumping. That was close. Too close. For a moment there he hadn’t thought he’d make it.

  “Nice work. See you tomorrow?”

  Wes shook his head as he counted the hard-won watts in his hand, barely enough to buy the boys dinner. He couldn’t do this again. He would have to think of another way to feed his crew. His friend Carlos at the Loss owed him one. After all, Wes had refused to torch the place earlier in the year, and it wasn’t his fault their rivals had found someone else to take the job. Maybe it was time to try his luck at the casino tables again.

  In Vegas, there was always another game.

  5

  “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.

  The chips . . .

  Four platinum ones.

  Equal to twenty thousand heat credits. Enough to pay a runner, enough to hire a ship. Enough to get her out of here . . .

  She looked up and caught her newfound hero’s eye and they stared at each other for a heartbeat.

  When she looked down at the table again, the chips were gone.

  The handsome boy blinked, confused.

  “Here,” Nat said, slipping a few plastic chips into his hand. She thought of those warm gloves she’d been saving up for. “For your trouble.”

  “Save it for that glass of water,” he said, giving her chips back and walking toward the exit.

  6

  WES MOVED QUICKLY THROUGH THE CASINO, annoyed with himself. The platinum chips were right there. Four of them, equal to twenty thousand watts, his for the taking. So why didn’t he have them?

  It had gone down perfectly at first. He had hooked the dealer with his line, saw how she lit up when he smiled, and Daran had executed the play to the letter with that shady ace. Caused a commotion, and in the process allowed Wes ample time to take four of those platinum chips while the dealer’s attention was focused elsewhere.

  Except Wes hadn’t taken them and he was going back to the rendezvous empty-handed. He frowned as he scissored his way through the slow-moving crowd on the way to Mark Antony’s. All he’d had to do was slip those fancy chips into his pocket and they would have eaten like kings tonight. But he had hesitated, and then they were gone, vanished in the blink of an eye.

  The walkway was full of hustlers peddling their wares, handing out cards and flyers, their good-time gals casting sultry looks at anyone who came by.

  “What’s wrong, handsome? I can make you feel better,” the nearest one promised. “Or you can do the same for me . . .”

  Wes found his crew assembled at the base of the Bacchus statue at the Forum Shops-in-the-Sky. They looked up at him eagerly. Daran wasn’t there yet, but he would be okay. Carlos would take care of him.

  “How’d it go, boss?” Shakes asked. The scruffy, goateed beanpole of a soldier was his right-hand man, and had been with Wes since their grunt days. They were like brothers. Shakes was solid, a rock, despite his name. He was a veteran like Wes, with a survivor’s stoic determination. Shakes had been more than displeased the other night to hear that Wes had been back at the tracks. I didn’t save your butt in Santonio just so you could throw your life away as a death jockey. He looked at Wes hopefully, but Wes shook his head.

  “What happened?” Farouk whined. He was the youngest of the crew, all nose and elbows, a scrawny, twitchy kid with a bottomless appetite.

  Wes was about to explain when Daran and Zedric came running up the walkway. The brothers were dressed identically, in the same tan windbreaker, the same dark slacks, the same shaggy dark hair and piercing black eyes. If Daran had been recognized by security, Zedric would have stepped in to play the part of the thief.

  Unlike Shakes, the rest of the team were new hires. Daran and Zedric Slaine and Farouk Jones. Farouk was thirteen going on thirty, a blabbermouth—he never stopped talking even when he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about—he was an expert on every topic with no experience to back it up. Dar and Zed were only a year apart, but Daran treated his younger brother like a kid. They’d been booted from the army before they could be eligible for full post-service benefits, which was routine military policy these days. Cut ’em loose before they get too expensive. Typical soldiers, they were brash, potty-mouthed, and hotheaded, but they were also dead shots who were handy in a firefight.

  “How much?” Daran asked. “How’d we do?”

  “Came up snake eyes, sorry,” Wes told him.

  Daran cursed long and creatively. He sneered at Wes. “You holding out on us?”

  “I swear to god—I got nothing,” Wes said, returning his gun.

  Daran yanked it back furiously. “What d’you mean you don’t have it? I had that golden. It was all there! All you had to do was reach out and take those chips!”

  Wes looked around, people were beginning to notice, and while the sky patrols were giving them a wide berth, they would be moving in soon if the boys continued to make too much noise. “Keep your voices down. They were on to me. I couldn’t blow Carlos’s cover.”

  “No way! They knew nothing! I’m not buying it!” Daran protested. “And Carlos is expecting his two thousand hot.”

  “Let me take care of Carlos.”

  “So there’s nothing to eat?” Farouk asked again. “Nothing?”

  “Not unless you like glop,” Zedric intoned darkly, glaring at Wes. “I’m not going back to that food line—it’s humiliating.”

  Shakes nodded. He didn’t accuse, he didn’t complain. He clapped Wes on the shoulder. “You can do this in your sleep. We’ve run that play a hundred times. What happened?”

  Wes sighed. “I told you, I felt the eyes on u
s. I spooked.”

  He didn’t want to tell them the truth, didn’t even want to admit it to himself.

  What had happened?

  The blackjack dealer was beautiful, with long dark hair and luminous, fair skin. She had none of that bronzed hardness that was so popular now among the New Veg snow bunnies, with their dark-orange tans and bleached hair, a desperate attempt to look as if one could afford to travel to the enclosed cities where an artificial sun provided heat and light.

  But it wasn’t that she was pretty. It was that she was on to him.

  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.