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 trust 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 usuaclass="underline" 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.