Paradigm (27 page)

“Yeah,” said Sam, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Is…um…?”

“She’s fine. She started trying to get out of bed, so I gave her something to help her sleep. She should be out till morning.”

He hadn’t thought of that—that he might not be able to say goodbye. But maybe it was for the best. She would wake up and he’d be gone and she could just go back to her old life.

And he could go back to his.

Except that he didn’t think he could.

Not that it mattered, of course. If he failed to get the box Carolyn Bast would either kill him or give him to the plex.

He was still considering his inevitable demise when Vincent came back to announce that the pig was ready, so he shook off his gloom and loped over to the fire where everyone was helping themselves to strips of pork. Vincent handed him a knife and urged him to join in.

Sam cut off a sliver of flesh and put it in his mouth. It was incredible—succulent and delicious. Between Carolyn Bast’s dinner and the Rovers’ roast he began to doubt he would ever be able to eat regular food again.

The Rovers clustered around the fire, faces glowing and hands shiny with fat. They didn’t concern themselves with plates or any utensils other than knives, and an outsider could be forgiven for thinking that it was a free-for-all, but Sam noticed that the older ones made sure that the younger ones got plenty to eat and everyone was smiling and happy. They were like a single living organism, a family in every sense of the word.

By the time they’d finished eating, it was nearly dark and the Rovers retired into the warm shadows to drink and talk while a girl picked out a tune on an old guitar, beaten and cracked and with only three strings. Sam wondered if she was the same girl he’d heard singing when he was their prisoner. The music then had seemed raucous, but now it sounded wistful and sad.

He stood up, walked back to the trailer, and stood in the doorway watching Alma’s easy breathing. He turned to go, but realized that he couldn’t. She might not be able to hear him, but he had to say something.

He picked his way through the junk on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m going,” he whispered. “I mean…when you wake up I’ll be gone.”

He looked at her, then gently brushed her hair out of her face and smiled.

“You’d never let me do that, would you?”

He didn’t know what to say. He turned away. He might as well go. Then he turned back.

“I’m sorry about what I said before. Sometimes I don’t think. I guess. Or maybe I think too much. Maybe I should let other people think.”

He stood up then sat down again.

“The thing is…I like knowing you’re here. On the planet. So if you could try to stay on it as long as possible that would be good. If things work out for me…and they probably won’t, you were right about that…but if they do, and I end up back in the Wilds moving from town to town for no reason other than the one I’m in is played out, I want to be able to think of you…slaying dragons somewhere. Being scary.”

He sighed. None of that sounded right. It wasn’t what he wanted to say.

He leaned over and kissed her gently.

“I just want you to know that I don’t care about the blue sky. The yellow sky is fine. As long as you are under it. That’s all…that’s all.”

He stood up and walked out of the trailer. Vincent was waiting.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes,” said Sam. “I’m ready.”

Chapter 27

V
incent was right.
His truck was shit. It coasted to a stop for no apparent reason not once, but twice before they reached Fresno. Each time he had to turn off the engine, wait a moment then start it up again.

“Man,” said Sam. “And you thought my goat was a gas guzzler. Do you have any idea how much fuel you’re wasting every time you do that?”

“Yeah, well, my old truck was fine before you came along with your magic hoodoo stuff.”

“It wasn’t magic.”

“Yeah?”

“It was skill.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, you were lucky—I was hoping to take out your whole camp.”

They rode on in silence and finally rolled into Fresno nearly an hour and a half after they’d left. The journey should’ve taken a little over half an hour, but Sam decided that he wouldn’t mention that. At least not until Vincent got a new truck.

Fresno had once been a thriving city, a hub for all the farms and ranches in the valley. But it had suffered more than most when the water finally went away. At first the process had been slow, but after the Water Wars the city had found itself an island in an increasingly vast wasteland of scrub and tumbleweed. Most of the suburbs were little more than dust, with just the barest sign of the flimsy foundations of the tracts of houses that had once stretched as far as the eye could see. But its position at the foot of the Sierras had prevented its complete disappearance and, though much reduced, it was still a center for trade.

Which meant that there were plenty of saloons and gambling joints down the main drag. Sam smiled—this was something he understood. This was home.

Vincent parked the truck and they walked down the street until Sam found a place that was big enough for them to enter unnoticed.

“What are you drinking?” asked Vincent.

“Nothing,” said Sam. “I need a clear head.”

“Suit yourself.”

Vincent went over to the crowded bar while Sam scanned the room for the table with the most action. There were a couple of video poker tables near the entrance, one of which was unoccupied. Sam had always avoided them in the past, but this time he thought it might be worth a try.

He sat at the table and read the instructions. He was still familiarizing himself with how it worked when Vincent sat down with a beer and a paper bag of scratchings.

“How can you eat those when you’ve just had real pig?” asked Sam. “You know they’re made from some kind of synthetic, right?”

“Yeah, I also know video tables are rigged for the house,” said Vincent, between mouthfuls. “You’ll never make a big enough score off these.”

“Well, normally I’d agree with you,” said Sam. “But I thought I’d try an experiment.”

He reached into his pocket, dropped a coin into the slot and waited while the table went through its tinkling “welcome” routine.

“Well?” said Vincent. “Are you gonna play or not?”

Sam reached forward and touched the table. Not the screen, but the area just to the side where he calculated the actual machinery was.

It was just like the safe in Century City—a tingling shock, almost like static. He pulled his hand back sharply.

“What? What happened?”

Sam shook his head at Vincent, then lowered his eyes and touched the machine again. It was there, all of it, and he was part of it, seeing everything, feeling everything. Including the damper the owner had installed to make sure no one won too much.

Then he moved it, slowly at first, directing the impulses and signals with care, rewriting code on the fly. Then a bell rang and money poured out. Vincent jumped back as if he’d been shot.

“Holy shit! What…how did…?”

“Sit down!” hissed Sam. “You’ll attract attention. I’ll have to do something about that bell next time.”

“Next time?” said Vincent, a little too loudly.

Sam glared at him.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I mean,
next time
? You can do that whenever you want?”

“I think so. Let’s see.”

Sam dropped another coin into the slot and put his hand on the machine. This time it was much faster, as if he were walking down a familiar path and didn’t need to notice every stone and leaf on the way. The money poured out again, but this time there was no bell.

“Jesus!” whispered Vincent, knocking back his beer. “We’re gonna need a bag.”

“Yeah…um…I think we should go now.”

“Go? But—”

Sam nodded his head in the direction of the bartender. The place might be busy, but there’s something about the sound of money pouring out of a slot that slices through any amount of hubbub. The old man was staring over at them, eyebrows knitted, trying to see what they were up to.

Vincent finished his beer.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s go. There’s plenty of bars in this place and I’m guessing every one of them has at least one of these things.”

Sam filled his pockets with coins and they stepped out into the cold night air.

“There’s a grocery store over there,” he said.

“What?”

“We need a bag. You’re right.”

They crossed the street and bought a random selection of stuff. The clerk handed them the bag and seemed completely unfazed when Sam paid with handfuls of coins.

“Video poker?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Sam.

“You should try the ones down the street at the Old Pros. Biggest payouts in town. When they hit, that is. Which isn’t       often.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Vincent, taking the bag. “We’ll check it out.”

They walked down the street until they reached a large bar with a huge orange neon sign, “Old Pros.” The whole frontage was illuminated with glowing signs of one sort or another, including several for beer companies that hadn’t existed for well over seventy years. Sam thought it looked like a cross between an old Vegas casino and a swap meet, but for their purposes it was perfect—big, crowded and noisy.

Inside, there was every kind of game imaginable. Sam saw two tables using randomizers to deal and was tempted to go and play a few hands, but Vincent tapped him on the shoulder and leaned in.

“Hey!” he shouted, straining to be heard above the pounding music, perpetually pinging slot machines and cacophonous voices. “Over there!”

Sam peered through the crowd and saw a roped off area with four video poker tables. There was a huge, battered sign hanging above that read “Mega $$$$!!”

Vincent’s eyes were bright with anticipation, but Sam couldn’t help but notice that the machines were about as far from the door as it was possible to get, and with the number of people jamming the space in between, escape in the event things went wrong was not going to be an option.

He led the way to the roped-off area, but some muscle-bound throwback pointed them toward a line of would-be players.

“Great,” muttered Sam.

“You get in line,” said Vincent. “I’ll get the drinks in.”

“I said I don’t—” began Sam, but Vincent had already disappeared into the crowd.

He found the end of the line and took his place behind a middle-aged guy in a red jacket and orange shades.

“What’s in the bag?” he asked, after looking Sam up and down.

“Stuff.”

“Huh. You played here before?”

“Uh…no.” Sam wasn’t too happy about the conversation. People who spoke to you tended to remember you.

“They only let you play three hands,” said the guy. “But the payoff’s stellar when it hits. Old lady struck it three weeks ago. Amazing.”

“Three weeks? How often do the tables usually hit?”

“Depends,” said the guy, shrugging. “Once a month, maybe. Sometimes longer. Sometimes less. I mean, don’t get me wrong, or anything, I’m no idiot—I know the tables are rigged. But they have to let people win sometimes or no one would play. So it might as well be me as some old crone, right?”

Sam smiled thinly. This wasn’t good news. He certainly couldn’t let his table hit more than once. He began to wish they’d stuck with the seedier bars where the jackpots were smaller and no one paid much attention to the occasional winner.

“Here you go!” said Vincent, brightly, emerging out of the crowd and handing Sam a glass of dark liquid. “It’s okay, it’s just soda. I
was
listening back there, y’know. Don’t want to mess with the mojo.”

“Thanks.”

“Man, this line is slow!”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “And apparently you only get to play three hands at the end.”

“You’re joking?” Vincent looked outraged for a moment, then grinned. “Good job you only need—OW!”

“Oh, sorry, was that your foot?” said Sam calmly, glaring at him.

Vincent glared back and took a swig of his beer. The man in the red jacket glanced at him nervously, clearly threatened by the Rover, with his shaved head, piercings, tattoos and general air of menace. He turned away and instead tried to strike up a conversation with the two women in front of him, though without much success.

After about half an hour the line had inched up to the imposing bouncer, and red-jacket guy was finally allowed behind the rope to try his luck on a table. Sam was hoping that he’d play his three hands and leave before another table became vacant, but it was less than a minute before a couple of burly guys at the far table slammed their fists on its acrylic surface and stomped off to the bar.

Sam and Vincent took their places at the table. Sam took out a coin, inserted it, and waited for the game to start up. Nothing happened. He looked at the instructions again.

“Holy crap! It costs ten dollars a hand!”

“Well, how did you think they got the big payouts?” asked Vincent. “Get on with it.”

Sam sighed, inserted the rest of the money, and started to play the game normally.

“What are you doing?” whispered Vincent.

“See that guy over there?” said Sam, nodding toward the rear of the roped-off area. “He’s watching every game.”

Vincent glanced back.

“Shit. What are we gonna do?”

“I’m going to play this hand normally. Then you’re going to pretend to play the next one.”

“What?”

“Just…you know, move your hands around like you’re playing.”

“And you think he’ll fall for that?”

“With any luck he won’t have enough time to think about it.”

The first hand played out and Sam inserted the next ten dollars.

“Ready?” he said, resting his right palm on the table top.

Vincent nodded and began pantomiming playing a hand, while Sam leaned forward and closed his eyes, hoping that it looked like he was just intent on Vincent’s game.

This machine had three pretty sophisticated dampers to limit chances of winning, and the overall construction was much more impressive, but once again, he had little difficulty feeling his way through it and kicking up a straight flush against the machine’s full house. He managed to prevent the winning bell ringing, but it turned out to be a pointless effort, because as soon as the money began pouring from the machines maw, everything in the place began ringing and flashing, with the “Mega$$$” sign flashing a neon “We have a WINNER!!!” in red neon as the surrounding blubs flashed white and orange.

A huge cheer went up around the bar, except for the people on the other tables, who looked suddenly crestfallen. The line of people waiting to play melted away as well, and the guy supervising the tables glared over at them suspiciously.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Sam, dropping to the floor and picking up handfuls of coins.

Vincent dumped the contents of the plastic bag, and held it out for Sam to load up.

It seemed to take forever, and while various strangers kept coming over and slapping them on the back, Sam noticed that the big bouncer and the guy watching were now deep in conversation.

Eventually, it was all bagged and Sam and Vincent moved swiftly through the crowd and toward the door. But just as Sam began to relax and think that they’d actually get away without any problem, the Old Pros began to ring again—bells, lights, “We have a WINNER!!!” and the guy in the red jacket and orange shades leaping up and down and squealing like an excited seven year old.

“Shit!” said Vincent.

“Run!”

Sam didn’t look back. He just pounded the door open and took off down the street and up the nearest alley. He could hear Vincent behind him, but didn’t slow down to glance back until they’d weaved their way through town for about a mile.

When they finally did stop, they were in a narrow alley behind a couple of restaurants (if the stench from the garbage and the steam from a half-open door was anything to go by).

“Oh, wow,” gasped Vincent. “How amazing was that? Can you believe that guy hit right after? I mean, what are the odds?”

“Pretty high considering the last jackpot was three weeks ago,” said Sam, leaning against the cold brick wall.

“How much d’you think we got?”

“Dunno,” said Sam, smiling. “But plenty for a truck for you and something to get me to Century City.”

“You two ain’t going nowhere!” boomed a voice.

Sam looked up. The unmistakable silhouette of the bouncer was occupying most of the space at the far end of the alley.