“That really is very impressive,” she said. “And we’ve been to Mars. . . .”
Frankie slammed his door shut as hard as he could, just to make a point, and then hurried forward to join us when the car growled at him.
“Try not to look like tourists,” he said kindly. “That’s not going to impress anyone. It’s only a good, or more properly bad, reputation that’s going to keep the rats away in a place like this. You look even the least bit vulnerable, and you can just bet someone will try to take advantage. You practise looking world-weary and dangerous, while I haul the bags out of the trunk.”
Uniformed staff were already hurrying out of the main entrance doors to welcome us. In much the same way that strip club bouncers welcome you by grabbing your arm and hustling you inside, while assuring you that the first drink is on the house. The porters all had perfect smiles, showing off perfect teeth, and they all wore the same uniform of smart black with red trimmings. They headed for our bags like a bunch of piranha in a feeding frenzy. Frankie stopped unloading our luggage, and snapped his fingers imperiously at the uniformed flunkies.
“Help yourself, boys,” he said grandly. “Don’t drop anything; all breakages will come out of your wages. And if anything goes missing so will favoured parts of your anatomy.”
A tall and muscular fellow in the same snazzy outfit snapped to attention before Molly and me, and flashed us a perfectly meaningless smile. “Park your car, sir and madam? Just toss me the keys, and I’ll put her away for the night.”
“In your dreams, sonny!” snapped the car. “I can look after myself!”
The uniformed flunky jumped just a little, despite himself. The car sniggered.
“But still—stick around, sonny. I do like a man in uniform. . . .”
I looked at the flunky. “Run!” I said. “Flee, you fool. Get away, while you still can.”
“That’s all right, sir,” said the flunky. “I have been specially trained to deal with all the most . . . eccentric forms of transportation. Including Artificial Intelligence systems. I can handle anything.”
“Oh, I like him,” said the Scarlet Lady. “He’s got possibilities. . . .”
She opened her front door invitingly, and the poor fool actually dropped me a wink as he slipped in behind the steering wheel. He’d barely got his legs inside before the door slammed shut and locked itself, the engine roared and the steering wheel spun madly, and the car took off at great speed. In what might or might not have been the direction of the underground parking. I could hear the flunky screaming, the sound quickly diminishing as the car disappeared.
“She will eat him alive,” said Molly.
“I’m sure she’ll let him go,” I said. “Eventually.”
The other flunkies blinked at us respectfully, and handled our baggage with even more care. Just in case our bags also had more personality than was good for them. It took a good dozen uniforms to handle everything that had emerged from the car’s trunk, and transfer it through the main doors and into the lobby. Either they were making very heavy going of it, in hope of a bigger tip, or the bags really were very heavy. I wasn’t actually sure what was in most of them, but I was pretty sure most of it wasn’t mine. For all I knew they could be full of bricks, courtesy of the Armourer, just to ensure a good first impression. Appearances are everything, in the field.
* * *
Inside the lobby, it was all very rich and luxurious and ostentatiously expensive. The kind of look that says, if you aren’t independently wealthy . . . boy, are you in the wrong place. The dimensions alone were big enough to intimidate most people. The lobby stretched away far and wide, with a ceiling so high you’d have a hard job hitting it with a cricket ball. Fortunately, Molly and I had just returned from the Martian Tombs, which were big enough to make the lobby look like a poor relation. Glass and steel everywhere, decorated with gold and gems and pockets of impressive tech, held together with gleaming expanses of brightly coloured plastic. Not a spot of wood or marble anywhere. The only organic touches were the dozen or so tall potted plants set out across the lobby at strictly regular intervals. Though, of course, they weren’t any kind of plant I recognised, and I’ve been around. Everything I could see, from the furniture to the fittings, to the boutiques selling overpriced tatt, were all determinedly futuristic, designed to impress rather than make you feel comfortable.
You didn’t come to Casino Infernale to feel comfortable; you came to play the games.
“Someone clearly watched too much Star Trek at an impressionable age,” said Molly. “And, oh dear Lord, listen . . .”
I did, and winced. The lobby Muzak was playing tasteful orchestrated versions of old Rolling Stones songs. Someone’s idea of the classics.
There were quite a few people standing around the lobby: men and women of every age and nationality and culture, and even more varying ideas of what constituted formal attire. They all looked Molly, and then me, up and down before quickly deciding that no, we weren’t anybody. Or at least, no one important enough to worry about. They didn’t relax, as such, but they did go back to just staring around or talking quietly in small groups. Some of them leaned against walls, or pretended to browse the boutique displays, but everyone ignored the very uncomfortable-looking chairs. But wherever they were or whatever they pretended to be doing, they all kept a careful watch on the main doors, waiting for someone who mattered to arrive so they could rush forward and offer their services. Like the dedicated little parasites they were, or aspired to be.
“Don’t stare,” Molly said briskly. “They’re no danger to anyone, or they wouldn’t be allowed to hang around the lobby. They won’t be playing the games, so we won’t be mixing with them. There’s no one more snobbish, more elitist, more fixated on caste and status than a big-time gambler.”
“They can still be useful sources of information,” said Frankie, eager as always to be of assistance. “These people have come a long way to offer themselves to their perceived betters, to perform various services and functions. Think of them as the remora fish, allowed to swim safely through the shark’s jaws, to pick crumbs of food from its teeth. Of course, you don’t need them; you have me. They can’t do half the things for you that I can! I can get you anything! There’s a reason they call me Fun Time Frankie. . . .”
“And not a good one,” I said. “Talk to them when you get a chance. See what you can learn.”
The porters finished placing our bags very carefully before the high-tech reception desk, and Molly and I strode unhurriedly forward to meet the concierge. He drew himself up to his full height, which was impressive, the better to show off how fashionably thin he was in his tightly fitting formal suit of black with red trimmings. He had an unhealthily pale face, cold dark eyes, and a lipless smile. He looked like he should be starring in commercials for a cut-price undertaker. Old atavistic instincts made me want to throw something at him and run.
“Your names, sir and madam?” he said, in a deep sepulchral tone.
“Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf,” I said grandly. “You’re expecting us.”
The concierge looked down his nose at me, as though very much not expecting any such thing, and turned to the computer screen before him. His oversized and very hairy hands scuttled over the keyboard like a pair of spiders, and then his thin smile widened as he studied the information on the screen. He withdrew his hands, turned back to Molly and me, and did his best to seem even taller, so he had even further to look down on us.
“Your names are not on the list. We have no record of any rooms reserved for you. As far as our computers are concerned, you don’t exist.”
I just stared at him blankly. I didn’t know what to say. No one had ever looked me in the face before and told me I didn’t exist.
“We have reservations!” Molly said loudly, and just a bit dangerously. “Look again!”
“The computers are never wrong.”
“I could make you not exist,” I said.
“Threats
will get you nowhere,” said the concierge.
“You sure about that?” said Molly. “They always have, before.”
“Threats, backed up by extreme violence,” I said.
“Well, obviously,” said Molly.
Frankie leaned in helpfully. “He wants a bribe. . . .”
“He wants a good kicking,” I said. “And he is going to get one if he doesn’t change his tune, sharpish.”
“Can I change him into something?” said Molly. “I’m in a mood to be innovative. And extremely distressing when it comes to deciding on the details.”
“Security!” said the concierge, in a loud and carrying voice.
Molly and I turned quickly around to stand with our backs to the desk, as a dozen over-muscled thugs in ill-fitting tuxedos came hurrying forward from every direction at once, all of them smiling unpleasantly in anticipation of blood and mayhem. Very big and impressive, and probably quite scary, to anyone else. Molly and I looked at each other, and shared a quick smile.
“I’ll take the starch out of them with a few simple transformations,” said Molly. “How do you feel about sea anemones?”
“Sounds sufficiently unpleasant to me,” I said. “Anyone gets past you, I’ll kick them half-way into next week.”
“You pace yourself,” Molly said tactfully. “Remember, you’re not as . . . strong or as protected as you used to be.”
“Thank you, I hadn’t forgotten,” I said. “I can still look after myself.”
“Of course you can,” said Molly.
She gestured sharply at the nearest Security goon, and nothing happened. Molly blinked, tried again, swore dispassionately, and turned back to me.
“Okay, we’re in trouble. There’s a null zone operating here, covering the entire lobby. Presumably generated by Casino Security. Magic won’t work here. Any magic.”
I glared at Frankie, who’d already backed away a fair distance. “You might have warned us!”
“I thought you knew! You said you’d been briefed! And don’t look to me for help . . . I do not do the violence thing. And anyway, if the two of you can’t cope with a few muscle-bound bouncers you won’t last five minutes inside Casino Infernale. So, I’ll be over there, by the newsstand, hiding behind something, wishing you well. Unless you lose, in which case I never saw you before.”
And he departed, at speed. Leaving Molly and me to face the rapidly approaching Security goons. They were almost upon us, grinning nastily and flexing their large hands, eager to do something really nasty to some guests. Instead of just bowing to them and taking their shit.
“Okay,” I said to Molly. “You take the six on the left, and I’ll take the six to the right. First to pile up all six in a bloody heap shall be entitled to Special Treats in the bedroom department.”
“No offence, Shaman,” said Molly, “but are you sure you’re up to this?”
“I was trained to fight by my family,” I said. “Armour’s all very well, but you need real fighting skills to get the most out of it. How about you, without your magics?”
“Are you kidding?” said Molly. “I grew up with Isabella and Louise! And I am just in the mood to hit someone. . . .”
“Never knew you when you weren’t,” I said.
Molly beamed at me. “Nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
And together we went forward to face the Security goons, and something in the way we held ourselves, and something in our smiles, slowed them down for just a moment. Which was all we needed.
I put aside my usual practised fighting skills; they needed my armour’s strength and speed to back them up. Instead, I fell back upon the basic scrapping skills drilled into me from a very early age by the family Sarjeant-at-Arms. As children, we weren’t allowed to use our armour against him in the practise ring; he shut down our torcs and made us fight barehanded. We all learned to defend ourselves quickly, because it was either that or get the crap knocked out of us on a regular basis. No use complaining to the family—they just said it built character. They said that about a lot of things I hated, but there was no denying the Sarjeant-at-Arms taught us how to fight. It was all that kept us out of the family hospital.
Remember: nuts and noses, hit their soft parts with your hard parts, and whenever possible trick an enemy into using his own strength against him. And never hit a man when he’s down; put the boot in. It’s safer, and more efficient. I could hear the Sarjeant-at-Arm’s voice in my head as I went to meet my enemy. That horrid, implacable voice.
I ducked the first goon’s punch, and used the second goon’s overextended blow to throw him over my shoulder. I tripped a third, and took the fourth’s blow on my shoulder. It hurt like hell. I wasn’t used to taking punches any more. I let the pain drive me on. I grabbed the fourth goon by the lapels of his tuxedo, pulled him forward, and head-butted him in the face. He cried out as his nose broke, and blood splashed across my face. I threw him away from me, ducked a punch from the fifth goon, kept moving, grabbed up a tall potted plant, and threw it at the sixth goon. He caught it automatically, and I lunged forward and sucker-punched him in the throat through the foliage. He fell backwards with the plant on top of him, making horrible choking noises.
Fists hit me from every direction, hitting hard, and it was all I could do to keep moving, and try to take the blows in places that wouldn’t put me down. The pain took my breath away, but I kept bobbing and weaving, ducking some punches and doing my best to block the rest. I caught one overextended hand in mine, twisted the man around, and threw him face first into the wall. He hit hard, and slumped to the floor, twitching. A really big goon lunged at me with both arms outstretched, his hands going for my throat. I let him come forward, let his hands fasten around my throat, and then kneed him in the groin with great thoroughness. His breath shot out of his mouth, his grip loosened, and his head lowered. I rabbit-punched him on the back of the neck, just to be sure, and he was unconscious before he hit the floor. Another goon grabbed me from behind; two huge arms closing around me, forcing the breath from my lungs. I stamped hard on his left foot, and felt the bones break in his toes. He cried out in pain and outrage, but his grip didn’t loosen. So I stamped down hard again, grinding the broken toes under my heel, and this time his grip loosened enough for me to surge forward and then back, slamming the back of my head into his face. I felt warm blood splash across the back of my neck. I broke his hold, and spun round to see blood gushing from his smashed mouth. It made me feel good. I hit him hard, just under the sternum, and all the colour went out of his face as my fist compressed his heart. He fell to the floor, and curled into a ball.
The one remaining goon on his feet decided he wanted to box, his huge fists held out before him. He looked like he’d done it before, so I decided I wasn’t going to play. I took off one of my shoes, and threw it in his face. And while he was distracted, I kicked him good and hard in the nuts with the foot that still had a shoe on it. He bent right over, as though bowing to me, and I viciously back-elbowed him in the kidneys till he went down.
The trouble with being big and strong is that you often don’t feel the need to learn how to fight. You just assume that being the biggest man in the room automatically makes you the winner. Well, no, not if you’re up against someone who’s been trained by a family who’ve spent centuries refining the art of fighting dirty. And, if you are someone who has learned how to take on the Drood Sarjeant-at-Arms and walk away reasonably intact, nothing is ever going to frighten you again.
I stood for a moment, bent half over, struggling to get my breathing back under control. It felt surprisingly good, to know for a fact that I wasn’t dependent on my armour to get things done. Nothing like proving to yourself that you can still hold up your end of a ruck to raise the old self-esteem. It’s the man, not the armour. The family always tells us that, but we never really believe it until we find out the hard way.
I put my shoe back on, and then looked around for Molly. Five unconscious and somewhat bloody Security goo
ns were piled up in one corner of the lobby, and Molly was stabbing two stiff fingers into the eyes of the sixth. He screamed briefly, and put both hands up to protect his face. Molly kicked the goon hard enough in the left knee to dislodge the knee-cap, and he fell to the floor, still screaming. Molly kicked him really hard in the head, and he stopped screaming. Molly smiled sweetly, and looked round to see how I was doing.
We moved slowly and just a bit painfully towards each other. She saw the blood on my face, and I quickly raised a hand to assure her it wasn’t mine. We stood together, face to face, not leaning on each other because we didn’t want to appear weak in the face of so many potential enemies. We smiled at each other, as we learned to breathe more deliberately, and our heart-beats fell back to something closer to normal. And then we both turned to look at the concierge behind his desk.
We smiled at him, just daring him to try to run. And then we walked back to the desk, taking our time, while he stared at us with wide, frightened eyes. I stood before the concierge, took out my Colt Repeater, and placed the long barrel right between his eyes. The concierge went even paler, and made a high whimpering noise.
“Check the reservations again,” I said. “Perhaps there’s been an error.”
“An error! Yes, of course, sir and madam! Ha-ha!” said the concierge, smiling desperately. “Here are your names: Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf! They were here all along—please don’t shoot me.”
“You didn’t even look,” said Molly.
“You are very definitely booked into this hotel!” said the concierge. “Here is your electronic door key. Do please enjoy your stay.”
“We’d better,” I said.
I stepped back, and made the Colt disappear back into its holster, while the concierge gestured urgently for the baggage boys. A dozen or so quickly gathered up our suitcases between them and headed smartly for the escalators. Molly sniffed loudly.
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