The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

  'I've found desperation to be the mark of a loser more often than not.'

  Athon-Igel was still truculent.

  'I suppose you consider yourself a winner.'

  Again Phaid didn't bother to answer. He just looked down at the clutter of plaques in front of him. The other players seemed decidedly ill at ease with Athon-Igel's behaviour, but he simply wouldn't let go of it.

  'We can all fight when we're cornered. Did you ever consider that?'

  Phaid took a deep breath.

  'Why don't we play some cards.'

  Roni-Vows wagged a finger in Athon-Igel's direction.

  'We're cornered right now, but I don't see anyone fighting or even preparing to fight. Even you, Athon-Igel, you're just like the rest of us, trying to have a little fun before the mob smashes down the door.'

  Athon-Igel's head lolled as he tried to focus on Roni-Vows.

  'You always have been an alarmist. This rebel business will blow over soon enough and things will be just as they were before.'

  An elderly, rather distinguished man at the other end of the table coughed politely.

  'I wish I shared your optimism, Athon-Igel.'

  Roni-Vows nodded in agreement.

  'I heard that the marikhs have threatened to close down the lines in and out of the city until they can be assured of a stable government.'

  This remark caused a lot of consternation around the gaming table.

  'We'll be cut off.'

  'It can't be true.'

  The elderly man quieted the table and then addressed himself to Roni-Vows.

  'Are you sure of what you're saying?'

  'I've never known a marikh to spread idle rumours.'

  'You heard it directly from a marikh?'

  'Of course not, but . . .'

  'Then what you're saying may not actually be true.'

  'It's possible, but I wouldn't count on it. What would you do in their place?'

  'I'd close the lines until I was assured of a stable government.'

  'Exactly.'

  'You realise that if this is the case, we have to decide now whether to go or to stay.'

  There was commotion again until the elderly man once more called for quiet.

  'So what say you, Roni-Vows? Is it time for flight?'

  'I'm not leaving the city.'

  'You're not?'

  'So long as the Day Oners don't take sole control I think we'll be safe. Once there is a new administration, they will need our help to wipe out the Day One psychotics. All we have to guard against is being hung in the meantime."

  The elderly man seemed to have his doubts.

  'You'd be running some terrible risks.'

  'We'd be running some terrible risks by going anywhere else. I can't think of many places where the court of Chrystiana-Nex would be welcomed with open arms.'

  There was silence around the gaming table as these thoughts sunk in. Phaid took the opportunity to beckon to one of the two liveried footmen who flanked the door.

  'Cash me in, will you? I think it's time that I left.'

  Phaid swallowed the remainder of his drink and waited for the flunky to return with his cash. Athon-Igel was once again staring at Phaid. The drunken courtier was starting to annoy him.

  'You want something?'

  'You're leaving?'

  'I'm leaving. I have a feeling that these gentlemen have lost their taste for the game.'

  Roni-Vows stood up.

  'When will I see you again, my friend?'

  Phaid shrugged.

  'Who knows in times like these. It'll happen.'

  Roni-Vows nodded, but there was a strange look in his eyes.

  'Yes . . . it'll happen.'

  The footman handed Phaid his money. Phaid stowed the wallet carefully inside his coat and made his goodbyes. As he walked out of the private gaming room, his mood was close to jubilant. He had won over twelve thousand tabs and managed to make a graceful exit. By way of a bonus, he had heard the news about the marikhs closing the lines. He and Streetlife would now have a chance to ride out of Chrystianaville before that happened.

  Phaid lingered for a while on the wide curved balcony that overlooked the main room of Thandon's. Thandon's was a palace of leisure for the quality of Chrystianaville. From the outside it looked like a cluster of plasteel spheres. Bubbles if you like. One large bubble with a number of smaller bubbles clinging to it. The lights inside the translucent domes gave them a pale, pastel glow in the night.

  The main room was for dancing and parading. It was a salon where the structure of smart society was evaluated and arbitrated. Meetings were made, trysts were kept and broken, affairs were initiated and affairs were finished. It had the competitiveness of a battlefield.

  All around the main room there were the smaller satellite chambers; the gaming rooms, where fortunes could be won or lost across the tables; the even more private suites where the affairs initiated in the main salon could be consummated in comfort and secrecy.

  Phaid descended the wide curving staircase to the main floor and plunged into the roar of chattering people. He exchanged glances and smiles with a number of women. He was tempted to stay for a while. Amid the whirl and sparkle it was hard to believe that half the city was in the hands of rebels dedicated to executing everyone around him.

  He was very conscious of the revolution, however. The wallet full of winnings was his passage as far away from it as possible. He put women out of his mind and made his way quickly to the arches that marked Thandon's grand, Harald Boulevard entrance.

  Under the arches a flock of footmen lounged around, apparently waiting for someone to give them an assig­ment. They showed little enthusiasm for anything like that happening. Phaid waved to one who happened to be looking in his direction. The footman rather grudgingly pushed himself away from the wall against which he was leaning and came slowly towards Phaid.

  'You want something?'

  Phaid hadn't expected this surly response. Thandon's was the most exclusive establishment in the city. It was almost as hard to get into as the Presidential Palace. Normally the staff was attentive to the point of being servile. Phaid wondered what had happened to change that.

  'I'd like you to find my chauffeur for me.'

  'And who might you be?'

  'My name is Phaid. I came in some hours ago with Roni-Vows' party. I'd like you to find my chauffeur and get him to bring my flipper round to this entrance. He's a . . .'

  'I don't give a fuck what he is. I ain't running after your man for you. Go find your own transport.'

  'What?'

  'You heard me. Do your own running around, pig. Your class is going to pay before too long. Any day now.'

  Phaid took a step back. He held up his hands.

  'Okay, okay, can you just tell me where I can find him?'

  'Probably down in the sub basement, unless of course he's stolen your flipper and fucked off.'

  The footman's expression made it clear that he hoped this was the case. Phaid, having taken all the hostility he was prepared to take, went looking for an escalator.

  The sub basement was a marked contrast to the flash and gaiety of the upper levels of Thandon's. It was dark, airless and uncomfortably warm. The lines of parked flippers were dimly illuminated by a few scattered glo-bars. Despite the fact that the underground lot was so vast, it was somehow claustrophobic and unsettling. Groups of human drivers and handlers leaned or sat on the hoods of flippers and chewed the fat. The android handlers had also hooked in to each other and were tweeting and warbling in a low, almost secretive fashion.

  After going from group to group trying to locate Streetlife in the gloom, Phaid realised that he was wasting his time. Also, the mood of the hired help to the upper classes was such that Phaid was running a fairly positive risk of being beaten or robbed. He knew he'd probably be better off if he simply started hollering and let Streetlife find him.

  'Hey, Streetlife.'

  Nobody answered, but a few humans looked
at him curiously and a number of android sensors pulsed on and off.

  'Hey, Streetlife! Get over here, will you?'

  Echoes splashed all around the subterranean lot. When they finally died away a quiet voice came out of the darkness.

  'Why don't you shut the fuck up, you overdressed clown?'

  Phaid froze with embarrassment. As if by magic, Street­life slid out of the darkness, silent as a cat.

  'What in hell's got into you? You about to have a seizure or something?'

  'Let's go and get into the flipper, shall we?'

  'Listen, just hold on a minute, I got something cooking with . . .'

  'Forget about the cooking. It can't be that important. Let's just get out of here. I'll explain once we're inside the flipper.'

  Streetlife raised both hands.

  'Okay, okay, what do I know. I'm only the flunky anyway.'

  He led Phaid along rows of machines until they finally reached their own. They both climbed in, Streetlife be­hind the controls and Phaid in the passenger seat. Streetlife manoeuvred the vehicle out of the underground lot. Once they were crusing down Harald Boulevard, Street­life glanced at Phaid.

  'So, gambling man, what's all the fuss about?'

  Phaid grinned.

  'Twelve thousand is what it's about. I didn't want to hang around that vault for too long. I was getting the feeling that someone might start to wonder if I was worth robbing.'

  A slow smile spread over Streetlife's face.

  'Did you say twelve thousand?'

  'Profit.'

  Streetlife laughed out loud and almost spun the machine into a passing police transport. Phaid grabbed the controls.

  'Will you watch it?'

  'We're rich?'

  'It'd be a drag to be rich and dead, so just concentrate on the driving.'

  'Rich!'

  'Drive.'

  'Okay, okay. What we going to do with all this wealth?'

  'I figure we should start thinking about getting out of town. The chances are that neither you nor I are too popular with the rebels right now.'

  'That's a fact, but hell, they ain't in power yet. We can celebrate, can't we?'

  'Celebrate tonight, but we should think about moving out tomorrow.'

  'How come?'

  The marikhs are talking about closing the lines until things settle down.'

  'It's that bad?'

  'So it would seem. More than one courtier is making plans to get out.'

  'Come to think of it, the flunkeys are in a pretty ugly mood, too. They're talking back to their bosses and stealing everything they can get their hands on. Even the police are getting restless, from what I've heard. The word is that a few have deserted already, looking for a better deal with the rebels. Seems like just about every pussy's counting the days before the rebels hit the centre of town.'

  'All the more reason for us to be be someplace else.'

  'You sure about this business with the marikhs?'

  'As sure as you can be at third hand.'

  Streetlife nodded.

  'Maybe we did better start thinking about moving on.'

  Phaid yawned. It had been a long night.

  'That's what I'm telling you.'

  Streetlife suddenly laughed.

  'Yeah, well, we can move on tomorrow. Tonight we going to celebrate.'

  He abruptly accelerated the flipper and gunned down the boulevard, weaving and jumping the other traffic. The first surge had thrown Phaid sprawling back in his seat, now he found himself bounced up and down and from side to side as Streetlife ducked and dodged.

  'Where the hell are we going?'

  'You'll see.'

  They were heading west, into a part of town that Phaid didn't know too well. They turned off the Boulevard and started up the approach ramp to a roughly pyramid shaped multistructure. Phaid glanced at Streetlife.

  'The Wospan.'

  'A part of it.'

  'You know, I've only been through here once or twice.'

  'That's because you spend your whole life fretting and hustling. You want to learn. You know that there are people who don't leave the Wospan from one year's end to the next. If there's one place where nobody don't worry about revolution and shit like that, it's here in the Wospan.'

  Phaid thought to himself that here in the Wospan they probably didn't worry about very much at all. It was a set of multistructures, and the smaller buildings in between them, that had become the sanctuary for those who wanted to detach themselves from reality. There was a legend that, hundreds of years ago, it had been a thriving artists' quarter, a place that constantly produced sculp­tures, painting, music and literature. Then, as in so many other places, the flow of creativity dried up. Art withered and died, part of its reputation remained, though. People who lived in the Wospan thought of themselves as indi­viduals, very special people who were somehow set apart from the common herd. They acted and dressed accor­dingly. Phaid always felt uneasy if he spent too long in their company. He had this irrational fear that his brain was going to atrophy. With all this going through his mind, he watched as Streetlife nosed the flipper through the narrow twisting ways of the hivelike mountain of architecture.

  'Surely this place is nothing more than a maze of dog gold and fantasy.'

  Streetlife gave Phaid a searching look.

  'That's a strange remark coming from you. I thought you were a try anything man.'

  'Maybe I'm just tired.'

  Streetlife tried to sweep away Phaid's sudden down mood by sheer force of good cheer.

  'Hey, come on, partner. We just got lucky and we going on a celebration. I heard it told that you can find anything you want in the Wospan, if you know where to look.'

  'What happens if you forget where to look?'

  Streetlife grimaced.

  'What's the matter with you, man? You ought to be on top of the world. You a winner. Ain't that what you always wanted to be?'

  Phaid took a deep breath.

  'Yeah, yeah, I guess it's just a reaction from the game.' He did his best to get a grip on himself. 'So where are we going to start this celebration?'

  Streetlife grinned a that's-more-like-it grin.

  'This looks as good a place as any.'

  They had hit a flat area on the outside of the structure. It was part terrace and part courtyard, illuminated by glo-globes strung in a line of artificial steel trees. Even though the night was late, the area was quite crowded. The people were colourfully dressed, sweeping capes and wide brimmed feathered hats seemed to be a particular vogue. Vogues were now the main industry of the Wos­pan. If half the city set decided to spend its time immersed in warm water, you could be sure that the idea started right there.

  The crowd on the terrace was peaceful, almost dreamily serene. People strolled and sauntered under angular, gleaming trees. Others stood in groups around tall pillars of gas flame that shot up from apertures set at regular intervals in the paving.

  Streetlife was looking for a spot to leave the flipper so he and Phaid could start out on foot. Phaid pointed at a number of stationary vehicles some distance down the terrace.

  'How about there?'

  Streetlife edged the flipper towards the other machines.

  'Looks good to me ... uh oh, maybe we ought to go up a bit higher.'

  As they'd come closer to the parked flippers, it was possible to make out the gleaming chrome work, the basket-like cages over the passenger bubbles and the ultra-long front end overriders that curved up like the horns of some fantastic beasts or mythic insects. The gas flames were reflected in glass-like paintwork, lavish in its detail. Serpents coiled and twisted around full thighed goddesses, dragons breathed fire and multiheaded winged monsters swooped and soared. Functional metal had been made beautiful with gold inlay and delicate engraving. Each creation was presided over by a young man in a tight, metallic sleeveless jacket who lounged and strutted beside his baroque machine.

  'Flip crazies. It better to give those persons a good w
ide berth.'

  Phaid looked surprised.

  'I always thought that they were quite peaceable. Most of the time they're completely tied up in posing and preening around their flippers, oblivious to the world.'

  'Most of the time they are. It would have been a mistake to park a heap like this next to their illustrious machines. They might have taken it as an insult, and stomped the shit out of us.'

  They left the terrace and wound their way up a spiral ramp to a similar open space on a higher level. This was a bit more lively than the previous one. The crowds were more manic and they milled rather than strolled. The lights were strung on a series of jagged sculptured pylons instead of the more gentle trees they'd seen below. Even the flames that gushed from the vents in the flagstones seemed more forceful and aggressive; their reds, yellows and blues were brighter and more garish. Phaid's state of mind immediately brightened. Streetlife halted the flipper and allowed it to sink to the ground. Two women walked past holding hands. They were elaborately coiffured and dressed in tight, metallic reptile skin. Streetlife leered after their exaggerated, twitching hips.

  'I tell you, partner, if we got to say farewell and goodbye to Chrystianaville, we picked the right place to do it.'

  Phaid suddenly laughed.

  'Amen to that. Let's have a good time for once. Life had been too troublesome of late.'

  Streetlife swung up the flipper's bubble.

  'Now you talking sense, partner. Now you talking sense.'

  He began to climb out of the machine, but Phaid quickly laid a hand on his arm.

  'We're holding rather too much cash to just go cruising around with it in our pockets.'

  Streetlife slapped himself twice on the back of the neck.

  'You right. I ought to be kicked for getting dumb.'

  He quickly closed the bubble and started to rummage around on the floor. Phaid stared at him curiously.

  'You ain't planning to hide it down there, are you? Anyone who wanted to break into the flipper would find it straightaway.'

  Streetlife ignored him and peeled back a section of floor covering. Under it was a small but solid looking trap.

  'What the hell is that, a concealed safe?'

  'You think I'd have me a ride without no safe for my valuables?'

  He placed his thumb on the scan plate of a small contact lock and the trap flipped open.