Ice by Rich Larson

Ice by Rich Larson (excerpt)

Most of the lads Sedgewick had met at last week’s game were waiting at the end of the exit tunnel, slouched under flickering florescents and passing a vape from hand to hand. He’d slotted their names and faces into a doc and memorized it. It wasn’t Sedgewick’s first run as the new boy and by now he knew hot to spot the prototypes.

You had your alpha-dog, who would make or break the entry depending on his mood more than anything. Your right-hand man, who usually the jealous type, and the left-hand man, who usually didn’t gave a shit. Your foot-soldiers, who weather-vaned according to the top three, ranging from gregarious to vaguely hostile. Then lastly your man out on the fringe, who would either glom on thick, hoping to get a friend that hadn’t figured out his position yet, or clam right up out of fear of getting replaced.

It was a bit harder to tell who was who with everyone modded and nobody speaking good Basic. They all came up off the wall when they caught sight of him, swooping in for the strange stutter-stop handshake that Sedgewick couldn’t quite time right. Petro, tall and languid, first because he was closest not because he cared. Oxo, black eyes already flicking away for approval. Brume, compact like a brick, angry-sounding laugh. Another Oxo, this one with a regrowth implant in his jaw, quite because of that or maybe because of something else.

Anton was the last, the one Sedgewick had pegged for alpha dog. He gripped his hand a beat longer and grinned with blocky white teeth that had never needed an orthosurgery.

Kingdom of Ice. Photo by Elena

“Ho, extro, how are you this morning?” He looked over Sedgewick’s shoulder and flashed his eyebrows. “Who?”

“Fletcher,” Sedgewick said. “The little brother. Going to feed him to a frost-whale.”

“Your brother.”

Fletcher stuffed his long hands into the pockets of his thermal and met Anton’s gaze. Sedgewick and his brother had the same muddy post-racial melanin and lamp-black hair, but from there they diverged. Sedgewick had always been slight-framed and small-boned, with any muscle slapped across his chest and arms fought for gram by gram in a gravity gym. His eyes were a bit sun and he hated his bowed nose.

Fletcher was already broad in the shoulders and slim-hipped, every bit of him carved sinew, and Sedgewick knew it wouldn’t be long before he was taller, too. His face was all angles now that the baby fat was gone: sharp cheekbones, netstar jawline. And his eyes were still reflecting in the hall-lit tunnel, throwing light like a cat’s.

Sedgewick could feel the tips of his ears heating up as Anton swung his stare from one brother to the other, nonverbalizing the big question, the always-there question, which was why are you freestyle if he’s modded.

“So how big are they?” Fletcher asked, with his grin coming back. “The frost-wales.”

“Big,” Anton said. “Ko gramme ko pujo.” He pointed over to Oxo-of-the-jaw-implant and snapped his fingers together for support.

“Big,” Oxo supplied in a mumble.

“Big”, Anton said.

Ice by Rich Larson.