Casino Infernale

by Simon R. Green

  “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 climb
ed 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!”

  I looked at Frankie. “That’s it? Just the prestige, and happy to be alive? No prize money?”

  “Not here,” said Frankie. “People play this kind of game for the fun of it, to show courage and gain instant respect. If you win. There is a lot of money to be made in the side bets, but this is really all about courage and skill and being completely fucking insane.”

  “And this is your idea of what we should do next?” said Molly.

  “It’s risky, yes, but a good win here would be more than enough to guarantee you access to the next level. Whilst also ensuring that everyone you meet there would be seriously scared of you.”

  I nodded, and strode forward. Before I could get a rush of good sense to the head and change my mind. I made myself known to the barker, and he flashed me a wide and knowing smile, clapped me on the shoulder, and roared out my name to the waiting crowd. They managed a few good-natured cheers as I climbed down the iron-runged ladder into the Pit. There were a few taunts and insults, but I ignored them. I wasn’t here for the crowd. I walked slowly round the Pit, getting the feel of the place. It was surprisingly cold, and the air stank of blood and spilled guts, of sweat and testosterone. It felt like a bad place to die.

  And then my opponent came swarming down the ladder, jumping the last few rungs in his eagerness. He spun round to face me, smiling coldly, and my heart sank. I knew him. And not in a good way.

  The Dancing Fool strutted round the Pit, bouncing on his feet to test the resilience of the packed earth floor. The fastest fighting man in the world. He could hit you so fast you wouldn’t even know you’d been hit till you woke up in hospital. He liked to claim his particular brand of martial arts was based on old Scottish sword dances, which was bullshit, but it didn’t stop him from always wearing a kilt. In a tartan I knew for a fact he wasn’t entitled to. His edge came from his very own special gift: to know what you were going to do, before you did it.

  Déjà fu.

  He was big and broad, and moved like the professional he was. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a darker heart. And he knew Shaman Bond was really a Drood, because we’d worked together before.

  It hadn’t ended well.

  Lots of people in the crowd recognised the Dancing Fool, and roared his name approvingly. Just by being here, he guaranteed a show—blood and death in the grand manner. He smiled and waved at all the hot watching eyes, and I just knew the odds against me were going through the roof. Hopefully Molly and Frankie were keeping on top of it. The Dancing Fool finally strode forward to face me, and I sighed, and nodded to him.

  “Hello, Nigel.”

  His smiled disappeared in a moment, and he scowled fiercely at me. “Don’t call me that, Shaman. Only my friends get to use my given name, and you never did qualify. Even when I thought we were both working on the same side. Never thought you’d see me again, did you, Shaman?”

  “You’re looking well,” I said. “Considering Walker shot both your knee-caps off at Place Gloria.”

  He sniffed loudly. “You can get anything repaired, if you have enough money. And if you’re motivated enough. I swore I’d have my revenge on you, Shaman! And so when a little bird told me that you’d be coming here . . . and that you wouldn’t have your precious armour to hide behind . . . well! How could I resist? A fair fight at last. I’m going to tear you to pieces, Shaman.”

  “Walker was right,” I said. “I should have let him kill you.”

  And I went straight for him, even before I’d finished talking. There was no point in hanging about, and there was always the chance I’d catch him off guard and get one good punch in. But of course he was expecting it, and he was so very fast. . . . My fist whooshed through the empty air where he had been just a moment before, and he hit me in the side, hard. I staggered away, clutching at myself, half-blind with pain and gasping for air. I was fast and skilled, well trained and experienced, versed in all the really dirty tricks . . . but he was just so damned fast. I spun round, head down, hands up to defend myself.

  I never stood a chance.

  The blows came out of nowhere. The first fist slammed into the side of my head, and the earth floor jumped up and hit me in the face. I didn’t even realise I’d fallen until he kicked me again and again in the ribs, to get me moving again. I heard ribs break, felt splinters grind in my side. I coughed hard, and blood filled my mouth. Not a good sign. I forced myself up onto my hands and knees, and a fist came flying down, hitting me so hard in the back I was slammed right back to the earth floor again. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The pain blotted out everything else. I squirmed around on the floor like a fish hauled up out of the water, hardly able to breathe. The only thing that saved me was that the Dancing Fool took time out to go strolling round the Pit in a lap of honour, smiling and waving to the screaming crowd.

  I spat out a thick mouthful of blood, and forced myself up onto my feet. I was swaying, and I could barely raise my fists without crying out, but I was up. The Dancing Fool looked around, saw me, and laughed delightedly. He got to play some more. He came at me again, impossibly fast, dancing round and round me, hitting me wherever and whenever he wanted. Every blow hurt like hell, and every blow did damage, but I stood my ground and took it and wouldn’t go down again. Because I had a plan.

  I was outclassed, and we both knew it. I was a good scrapper, but he was a professional. I’d only ever beaten him before because my armour protected me, and made me as fast as he was. Now all I had was stubbornness, and one desperate plan.

  At first, the crowd cried out and applauded every time he hit me, yelling out suggestions on the best ways to break and kill me. But as I rocked back and forth, taking the punishment but stubbornly refusing to be beaten, parts of the crowd came round to my side, yelling out encouragement. They did love an underdog, even if they wouldn’t bet on one.

  I staggered back and forth across the increasingly bloody earth floor, protecting my head as best I could, because one good shot to the head would leave me dazed and vulnerable. And that would be the end of it. More bones broke, more blood flew on the air, as the Dancing Fool spun and stamped around me, enjoying himself. My left arm hung broken and useless at my side, and I couldn’t see out of one eye. I hoped it was just puffed shut. And still I wouldn’t fall, wouldn’t give in. Because bit by bit the Armourer’s potion was kicking in. Showing me the patterns in how the Dancing Fool moved and held himself and planned his attacks.

  Until I could read the cocky little bastard like a book.

  I put my back against the wall, as though I hadn’t known it was there, as though I had nowhere else to run. The Dancing Fool came in close to throw a punch, and I saw it coming. His fist slammed towards my head with incredible speed, and I turned my head aside at just the last moment, so that his fist flashed by my head
and buried itself deep in the earth wall behind me. Just as I’d planned.

  I heard bones crunch as they broke in his hand. I saw the look of shock, and then pain, in his face. And then more shock, as he discovered his hand was trapped, buried deep, locked fast in the earth wall. And in that brief moment, as he put all his attention into trying to pull his hand free, I summoned up the last bit of strength I’d been saving and punched him savagely in the throat. I felt his trachea break, felt his windpipe collapse. Blood shot from his mouth, and all the sense went out of his eyes. He was still trying to pull his hand out of the wall, even as he made horrid choking sounds. I hit him again, with my one good hand; a vicious blow that slammed in right under his sternum. Hit a man there hard enough, and you can disrupt the rhythm of his heart. The Dancing Fool fell to his knees, his face blank, his eyes rolling up. One arm still stretched above his head, from where his hand was still trapped in the wall. He couldn’t breathe, and his heart was struggling. I looked down at the exposed back of his neck, and I rabbit-punched him.

  The first blow probably killed him. I hit him six more times, as hard as I could, just to be sure.

  I killed him. Not because he might have revealed who I really was and put an end to my mission. Not because he was a professional killer who needed killing; not because the world would be a better place without him. No. I killed him because he hurt me so badly, and because he would have killed me.

  The crowd was going wild at the unexpected victory. Jumping up and down, clutching at each other, screaming and shouting like they’d never stop. I could barely see them, and the sound seemed to be coming from a long way away. I didn’t care. I was looking at Nigel, lying dead before me on the cold earth floor. A small, broken, pathetic thing. I leaned over, and spat blood on his face. And then I turned away and limped slowly back to the iron ladder. It took me a long while to climb back up, with only one working arm.