Casino Infernale sh-6

by Simon R. Green

  I looked at the roulette wheel. “If it was up to me I’d smash that bloody thing into splinters . . . I don’t like this, Molly. Far too many random factors involved.”

  “But if you win big here, you win really big,” said Frankie. “Extra years of life, handfuls of cash from the side bets, and major prestige. And it’s not like any of the other games are going to be that much easier, or fairer. Winning against the odds is the whole idea.”

  “And we do have an edge, this time,” said Molly. “An edge that can’t be affected by any null zone. Remember the potion the Armourer gave us?”

  “Remember it?” I said. “How could I forget? I’ll still be able to taste that muck when I’m dead and six months in my grave!”

  “A potion to let us see the patterns in any game,” Molly said patiently. “Just looking at this game, I can sense the weight of the ball and the stresses in the wheel. All the patterns that decide where the ball turns up. I am pretty sure I can predict which number the ball will choose, every time. And since the potion is a part of our system, the Casino won’t be able to spot it, and the null can’t affect it.”

  I looked at the roulette wheel, and she was right. I could see the patterns in the play, clear as day. Given the mechanical workings of the wheel, predicting the outcome was child’s play. It was like reading a pack of marked cards. I could feel the weight of responsibility sliding off my shoulders.

  “Okay,” I said. “Go play, Molly. Have fun. Bet big, and take that smiling little croupier for everything he’s got. And Frankie, get the best odds you can from the crowd.”

  “No problem,” said Frankie.

  He moved off into the crowd, grinning and glad-handing everyone who didn’t run away fast enough, while Molly elbowed her way forward into a prize position at the side of the table. I hung back. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though anything could go wrong, this time. But I didn’t trust that feeling any more. People at the table realised they were standing next to the infamous wild witch Molly Metcalf, and quickly fell back to give her room. She smiled sweetly at the croupier, and exchanged a whole wad of money for a single chip to play with. The croupier smiled and nodded and went out of his way to flatter her, and Molly slapped him down with a single look.

  People came hurrying forward from all over the room as the word spread that Molly Metcalf was playing roulette. Some clearly wanted her to win, some just as clearly wanted to see her lose hard, and most just wanted to see the wild witch in action. Frankie moved among them like a shark with his mouth open, taking them for everything they had. The people might admire Molly and her reputation, but no one believed she could beat the wheel.

  Molly took her single chip and placed it firmly on Red twenty-one. Biggest bet you could make: twenty-one years of your life. One way or the other.

  The croupier looked round the table. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen!”

  Everyone played, but no one else wanted to place a chip beside Molly’s. The croupier spun the wheel, the ball went whirling round and round, clattering from place to place, and finally ended up in Black seventeen.

  “No!” I said. “That’s not possible!”

  No one paid me any attention. They were all looking at the small steel ball, and then at the young woman who’d just lost twenty-one years of her life. I was the only one there who knew just how wrong it was. Given that ball, in that wheel, there was no way it could have ended up in Black seventeen. Until I looked really hard—and saw the hidden mechanism behind the wheel. The croupier cheated.

  Molly looked slowly around her. Everyone was backing away from her. Partly so none of her bad luck would rub off on them, partly so they could get a better look at what was about to happen. The croupier smiled at Molly, and held up his hour-glass. Molly looked coldly back at him.

  “Do your damnedest. My sisters will avenge me.”

  A shudder ran through the crowd at that, and even the croupier balked for a moment. The croupier had cheated, diverted the ball, and looking into Molly’s eyes, he knew that she knew. But who would believe her? I knew, but how could I prove it without revealing how I knew? Without revealing I was a Drood, and throwing away my mission?

  I was here to prevent a war. To save who knew how many lives. I couldn’t risk my mission, just to save Molly from something she could probably undo herself, given time. She would understand. The croupier held up his hour-glass and waggled it in front of Molly, taunting her. And I reached for my Colt Repeater. Because no one messed with my Molly.

  And that was when a harsh, buzzing artificial voice shouted out, “Cheat!”

  The croupier glared around him immediately. “Who dares call me cheat?”

  “That would be me,” said the Thirtieth Century Man. He stomped forward, with loud crashing footsteps. An incredibly tall, broad, and heavy man, in an outfit that seemed to consist mainly of black leather straps. His marble white flesh was whorled with long streaks of steel, the meat and the metal fused seamlessly together. He was a cyborg, from some unknown future; a mixture of living and nonliving materials. His face was a collection of flat surfaces, with glowing golden eyes. I’d encountered him before, wandering through the sleazier flesh pits of old London town, trying to find something to interest him. He didn’t know how he ended up in our time, and was desperate to find a way back. People said he had an affinity for all things mechanical, and could see how anything worked at a glance.

  (Other, less kind people said he was queer for machines.)

  He gestured roughly at the roulette wheel, with one oversized hand, and the ball jumped from one slot to another as the cyborg worked the hidden mechanism, calling out each number in advance. The croupier’s face went white, and he started edging away from the table, looking for the nearest exit . . . but Jonathon Scott was already walking towards him, with two large Security men.

  “This . . . is intolerable,” said Scott. “Two proven cases of cheating in the first hour of Casino Infernale! This could damage our reputation beyond repair! And that it should be one of our own staff who is caught this time . . . ladies and gentlemen, allow us to make proper recompense.”

  He gestured to his two Security men, who moved quickly forward to grab the croupier by the arms and hold him still. He didn’t even try to struggle. He was already in enough trouble. Scott took the hour-glass from the croupier’s hand, and held it up so everyone could see it.

  “This man is the guilty party, so it is only proper that he should pay for his crime. Molly Metcalf, please allow the Casino to pay you the twenty-one years you rightfully won, courtesy of the man who cheated you.”

  He turned the hour-glass over with a dramatic flourish, and as the sands began to fall, so the extra years fell upon the croupier. He was a young man, and he cried out miserably as the best years of his life were taken from him; until a middle-aged man stood slumped between the two Security men. Weeping silently, for what he’d lost. I might have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t seen him enjoying it so much when it happened to other people. I looked at Molly. She threw back her head and laughed out loud. She didn’t look any younger, but she practically glowed with new energy. I turned to thank the Thirtieth Century Man, but he was already gone.

  “This roulette wheel is closed,” said Scott. “Until we can have it replaced. Please continue with the other games! Enjoy yourselves!”

  He strode away, and the Security men dragged the still sobbing croupier after him. A number of people who’d played the wheel before hurried after him, raising their voices. Scott just kept going. I cautiously approached Molly.

  “How do you feel?” I said.

  “I feel great! Marvellous! Full of energy . . . I feel like I could take on the whole damned world!”

  “Never knew you when you didn’t,” I said, and she laughed and calmed down a little.

  “There was no way the croupier was running that scam on his own,” she said briskly. “The Casino made him the scapegoat to avoid awkward questions. Frankie was right. We can’t tr
ust anyone here.”

  “So,” I said, “does all this new energy mean you’ll be able to break the null zone from now on?”

  “Unlikely,” said Molly. “Doubt it. I don’t think the Casino would give me anything I could use against it.”

  “Good point,” I said. “Does it mean you’ll live twenty-one years longer now than you would have?”

  “I don’t know . . . in theory. But in practice, given the kinds of lives we lead . . .”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “I really don’t like this place, Molly. I think it’s bad for us. Whether we win or lose.”

  “What did you expect?” said Frankie, sauntering over with another red leather reticule, bulging with cash. “This is a place of temptations. Win or lose, it’s bound to affect you.”

  I looked round sharply as the Thirtieth Century Man came over to join us. I hadn’t heard him leave, and I hadn’t seen him come back. Which, given the sheer size and weight of the man, should have been impossible. I was thinking vaguely about cloaking shields when he nodded brusquely to me, and addressed me abruptly with his buzzing artificial voice.

  “I thought you should know, you have friends here. From the Department of the Uncanny. But this is the only time I can assist you openly. Can’t help you again without risking my cover, and I have my own mission.”

  “What are you doing here?” I said. “Did the Regent . . .”

  “Hush,” said the Thirtieth Century Man. “Not a name to use in a place like this. Point is, he got word there might be a working time-travel device tucked away here, somewhere. Just a rumour, nothing solid. But one, we don’t want people like this to have it. And two, it could be a way home for me. So, you continue with your mission, and leave mine to me.”

  He strode away, and we watched him go. It wasn’t like we could have stopped him to ask more questions, even if we’d wanted to. I looked at Molly and Frankie.

  “That’s twice we’ve been saved at the last moment, by someone else. I think we’re pushing our luck.”

  “Come on!” said Frankie. “It’s a casino! Pushing your luck is what it’s all about. So, what next?”

  “A chance to catch my breath would be nice,” I said. “But I think the sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

  We looked around the room. None of the other games appealed to me, for all kinds of reasons. Too small, too slow, too risky . . .

  “You only need one more big win,” said Frankie. “I suppose . . . there is always the Arena.”

  “You have gladiators here?” said Molly.

  “Not as such,” said Frankie. “They call it the Pit. Just a big hole in the ground, really. The usual: two men enter, one man crawls out barely alive. Everyone else bets on the outcome, and makes lots of money. It’s win or die, hand-to-hand fighting, no weapons allowed.”

  I remembered looking down the gun at Jules, wanting him to die so I could win.

  “I’m an agent,” I said. “Not an assassin. I came here to gamble, not kill people.”

  “I don’t think anyone here cares what you want, sweetie,” Molly said carefully. “But you’re right. This isn’t for you. You don’t have the killer instinct. So I’ll do it. I can take care of myself in a fight, and the way I feel right now I could kick anyone’s arse!”

  “And that’s why you can’t do it,” I said. “All those extra years have gone to your head. I’ll do it. But whoever they put against me, I won’t kill them unless I have to.”

  “You’ll have to,” said Frankie.

  * * *

  Through the far doors and out beyond the Arena of Introductory Games . . . there was a really big hole in the ground. Just like the man said. A pit, some ten feet deep, with a packed earth floor and walls. Surrounded by a huge baying crowd, several ranks deep, all of them pushing and shoving each other in their excitement, struggling for a better view of what was going on down in the pit. Molly and I forced our way to the front, with a lot of elbowing, while Frankie stuck close behind. I looked down into the pit, and there was Jacqueline’s Hyde, fighting a French savate kick-fighter. The Frenchman was fast and skilled and vicious, just a blur in his movements as he danced back and forth. Sweat gleamed on his bare chest, over jodhpurs made from the French flag. His blows came out of nowhere, savage kicks striking home again and again. And none of it meant anything, because he was fighting Hyde.

  Everyone in the watching crowd hated Hyde. They booed and hissed him, screaming obscenities, men and women alike. Just the sight of Hyde seemed to infuriate and unhinge them. I could understand why. It wasn’t just that Hyde was ugly, though he was. Brutish, short, and powerfully muscled, hunched over by the sheer mass of musculature in his back. His square bony head thrust forward, dark feral eyes glaring from under a protruding brow. Long black hair fell down around a face marked with every sin that man is heir to. Just to look at him was to hate him, because he was everything inside us that we hate about ourselves. Only he gloried in it. He loved being what he was. Free of all inhibitions and restraint. I wanted to draw my gun and shoot him dead, just for the sin of being what he was. Just for existing.

  Robert Louis Stephenson put it best. He said Edward Hyde had the mark of Cain on him.

  Fresh blood dripped from Hyde’s hands and arms. He’d fought other men before this in the Pit. I could see bits and pieces of them scattered across the packed earth floor. And great dark splashes of blood all over the earth walls.

  The bloodlust in the watching crowd filled the air; hot and vicious and overwhelming. They wanted to see a death. Preferably Hyde, but deep down they weren’t fussy. They’d reached the point where anyone would do. The Frenchman hit Hyde again and again, terrible blows that slammed into him with devastating force and speed and accuracy. Just the sound of the impacts was enough to make me wince. But no matter how hard the Frenchman hit Hyde, or how often . . . he couldn’t hurt him. Hyde took every blow without flinching, not trying to evade any of them. He didn’t react at all, taking no pain or damage that anyone could see. He just smiled at his opponent—a cold, crafty, infuriating smile. Waiting for his moment.

  And eventually, inevitably, the Frenchman tired and slowed, and one great gnarled hand shot out and fastened on to the Frenchman’s ankle, stopping a blow in mid-kick. The Frenchman looked at Hyde with wide, startled eyes; caught in mid-move with one leg fully extended. And then Hyde just ripped the leg right off. Casually, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. The leg came away with a terrible tearing sound, and blood spurted thickly on the air from the awful open wound at the Frenchman’s hip. He crashed to the ground, and lay there, shaking and shuddering, too shocked even to scream as his life’s blood ran away to sink into the earth floor. The crowd were utterly still, and silent, watching with avid eyes as the Frenchman died. No one was interested in helping him. By the time I realised that, and started forward, the man was dead.

  Hyde leaned against the earth wall, and ate big chunks of meat from the leg he was holding. This was too much, even for a Casino Infernale crowd, and they screamed and shouted abuse at him. Those at the front surged forward, as though they would jump down into the Pit and attack Hyde, overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers. But the Casino Security people got there first, and forced the crowd back. Because no one could be allowed to interfere with the games.

  Hyde threw what was left of the leg away, wiping his bloody mouth clean with the back of his huge hand. He smiled arrogantly up at the crowd. Soaking up their rage and hate like approbation. And then, quite casually, he turned back into Jacqueline. There was no great transformation of the flesh; she just seemed to rise out of him, as though her presence had been implicit in him all the while. And, perhaps because I was watching so closely, in the moment when they changed . . . I saw Jacqueline and Hyde touch fingertips tenderly, just for a moment.

  Jacqueline Hyde looked round the blood-soaked Pit, holding the tatters of her dress to her. If what she saw bothered her, it didn’t show in her face. The crowd watched silently. Looking on
in awe at this small slender woman, who held a monster inside her. Jaqueline moved slowly over to the single iron-runged ladder that was the only way in and out of the Pit, and climbed out. When she reached the top, no one offered her a helping hand, or tried to push her back in. They just fell silently away, to give her space. Out of something like respect. A uniformed flunky came forward to offer her a robe. At arm’s length. Jacqueline accepted the robe, without saying anything, and wrapped it around her. She walked away, and everyone let her.

  In case Hyde might come back.

  More uniformed flunkies filed down into the Pit to recover the dead body and gather up the body parts scattered across the earth floor. It took them a while to manhandle everything back up the ladder.

  The barker in charge of the Pit came forward—a large cheerful fellow in a chequered suit. He grinned around him, as though he knew us all, and knew what we were there for.

  “Hello, hello, boys and girls! Come on in, you know you want it! Welcome to the Pit, where the killing’s easy and the dying is hard, and you get to enjoy every last bit of it! So step right up; who’s going to be our next volunteers? For the winner: prestige, and money, and the sheer joy of being alive! Let me tell you, you never feel more alive than when you stare death in the face and head-butt him!”