The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

  'Let go, Phaid. Let go and rest.'

  'No.'

  'Do not be so stubborn.'

  'I'm not going to wreck this flipper.'

  'Rest.'

  'No!'

  But even as Phaid protested, the world became less real. His concentration slipped away. His hands still gripped the controls but his mind was elsewhere. He wasn't asleep, but he also wasn't awake. Time had fallen out of joint. He drifted in and out of fragments of dreams and strange visions. Some came from within his own mind. The first level was taken up with images of danger and death. Makartur grinned and beckoned. His face was a ghastly threatening mask. Behind him were the phantom ranks of ancestor gods, going back a thousand years. As he slipped down, though, life as well as death called to him. Soft voluptuous shapes floated in a magenta sky, like pink or golden sensual clouds, across fantastic landscapes of rolling blue plains, candy cone mountains and warm lakes of sweet syrup. Mindless infant comfort, like the primal security of the womb, enfolded Phaid's fear and paranoia and cloaked it in mists of rapture. An idiot smile spread across his face. His head lolled, chin resting on his chest. His hands still gripped the controls, however. Every now and then he would move them slightly. Somehow, he was steering the vehicle with his unconscious.

  New images intruded on his dreams and his smile started to fade. These weren't even his own phantasms. They were strays, leakage from the mind of the elaihi. Phaid's own sugar and satin landscapes were swallowed by the cool fountains, the colonnades, the plazas, the spindly crystal towers and fragile, delicate bridge spans of some perfect elaihim world. There were some visions that he found quite unintelligible. Others were horrifically real and familiar. He visited dark smoky places that smelt of dirty and decay and disgusting habits. Sick, twisted and loathsome dwarfs crowded a crumbling labyrinth. They kept up a shrill non-stop babble. They scratched and picked at themselves. They were vicious and quarrelsome, stubborn and violent. They conducted themselves accord­ing to the irrational prejudices of the dully stupid. Phaid scrabbled for wakefulness as he realised that he was seeing humanity as the elaihim saw it. The flipper jolted as Phaid let go of the controls. It tilted and almost rolled. He grabbed them again and wrestled it back to the flat.

  'Why do you hate us so much?'

  Phaid was covered in sweat but he was back in the real world. Solchaim was sitting beside him and the two women were slumped in the back. His vision was crisp and clear and, for the first time since the elaihi had appeared at the hunters' camp, he had control of his own mind. He had also made what seemed to be an intuitive discovery. It might be possible to keep control of his brain and his willpower. The elaihi wasn't omnipotent. His power wasn't a matter of strength. It was subtlety and technique. He could learn the tricks and he could keep the creature out of his head. He looked directly at Solchaim and repeated the question. A hint of insolence had crept into his voice.

  'Why do you hate us?'

  Solchaim was looking straight ahead, as though search­ing for something beyond the snow.

  'We don't hate you.'

  Phaid noticed that Solchaim seemed to be speaking for his people as a whole.

  'Why are you afraid of us?'

  'We are not afraid of you.'

  Solchaim's voice was flat and mechanical. Phaid knew that he had his measure. He grinned unpleasantly.

  'Could it be that you fear the truth?'

  'Why should we fear the truth?'

  'Because you cannot deal with your past. You cannot deal with us humans. We're your past. It's that that you fear and hate. You are mankind's bastard children and you are mortally ashamed of your parents.'

  The sentence terminated in a scream. Pain turned his flesh to liquid. His eyelids crisped and blew away, his teeth grew so hot that his gums charred. His arms and legs were blasted stumps. He was being dipped in hell, hung up by the feet so his skin could be torn off in strips. Phaid had never imagined such agony was possible.

  'WHAT MAKES YOU THINK ELAIHIM AND HUMANS ARE IN ANY WAY CONNECTED?'

  It was the voice of God. Phaid was being punished. It was a game, a part of his training. He had been lulled by his master into feeling powerful and aggressive. He had snap­ped at his master's hand and he was being taught a lesson. That was the worst pain of all. He was incapable of anything but submission. The feeling of being so helpless and so inferior was more than his mind could take. It ran but there was no way to run. He was in a squirrel cage with no way out. The pain went on for what seemed like ages. Phaid squirmed and twisted but there was no escape. It wasn't even possible for him to die. Then, mercifully, a giant hand picked up him and his squirrel cage and dropped them into the black, cool pool of oblivion. Inside the flipper, sur­rounded by three unconscious humans, Solchaim took over the controls and drove the flipper himself.

  Chapter 28

  'Bluehaven.'

  Phaid woke up and blinked. He waited for the agony to start again but surprisingly it didn't. He had half expected to be limbless, carbonised medium rare and bleeding internally. In fact, he felt quite healthy, as though he had just come out of a long refreshing sleep.

  'Where are we?'

  'We are at Bluehaven.'

  Phaid struggled to sit up in his seat. He was still in the flipper. The. women were out cold in the back and Solchaim was sitting at the controls. Once again Phaid found that he was almost in complete command of his own mind. This time, though, he knew enough not to get arrogant about it. He now realised that, for all practical purposes, the elaihim strength was limitless. The flipper had been halted on a low ridge, just above the town. Once upon a time, Bluehaven must have been the shore of a broad lake. Now it was both on and beneath a second ridge that separated the white of the permafrost from the blue-grey of the pack ice. The iceboats and the other human structures were covered by what, from a distance, looked like a delicate tracery of crystals. The man-made objects seemed too fragile and vulnerable, totally at the mercy of the violent purple clouds that rolled and swirled in the mid-distance. It was not an encouraging sight, but there was a certain dangerous beauty about it. Most of Bluehaven was built underground. Its citizens lived and worked in a system of subterranean tunnels, only braving the sub-zero surface temperatures when it was absolutely necessary. Only the marikh branch line, the snout-like ends of air and ventilator shafts and a half-dozen or so iceboats tied to a snow covered pier provided the evidence that a human township existed there at all.

  The iceboats were the sole reason for the settlement. It was the furthest point into this particular ice plain where humans could exist on a permanent basis. Bluehaven provided the starting point for the iceboats' hazardous journey across the frozen wastes that marked the path of the savagely cold gales.

  Solchaim swung the controls over to Phaid's side of the flipper.

  'Take us into town.'

  Phaid looked at Solchaim but kept his mind blank. It looked as though there was some change in the situation between them, but he suspected that if he either ques­tioned it or thought about it, the elaihi would be down on him, seizing back the advantage. Phaid bided his time. He maintained a straight face and a straight mind. Concen­trating on every boring detail of the action, he put the flipper into drive and eased it down the snow covered track that led to Bluehaven. Now that they were near the habitation of humans, Phaid seemed to have been appointed chauffeur. After his bout of punishment, he wasn't about to resist. He'd be the damnedest, most docile chauffeur any elaihi could hope to have. The few people who had cause to be moving about on the surface were encased in full scale cold suits complete with bulky, fully pressurised helmets. He pulled up beside one of these individuals, cracked the flipper's dome and yelled into the teeth of the wind.

  'Where can I park this thing and get down below?'

  Phaid immediately regretted this move. The wind sea­red the skin on his face and tore the words out of his mouth. The eyes behind the face-plate of the protective helmet looked at Phaid as though he was stone crazy.

&n
bsp; 'Over there!'

  An amplified voice came from a small diaphragm just above the neck seal of the helmet and a heavily gloved hand pointed off to the right.

  'In that hangar. You can leave the flipper and there's an elevator down to the warm levels. Now get the damn bubble shut before you all get frostbitten.'

  Phaid did as he was told and banged the bubble shut. He looked around for the hangar that the passerby had indicated. All he could see was a snow covered building with a wide, dark entrance. It looked more like a cave than a hangar, but it was the only thing that even came close to the description.

  In order to get into it, he had to drive past the line of iceboats. Up close, they were much bigger and more substantial than they had looked from the top of the hill. Basically they were a streamlined, heavily armoured cylinder mounted on anything between four and ten enormous metal runner-blades. Above the cylinder, the giant, stressed steel airscoops hummed and sang in the gale. They were the boat's motive power that would snatch at the gale and drive the boat across the ice. They were mounted on, and held in place by, a formidable system of masts, spars, struts and thick control cables. To Phaid, they looked like the furled wings and split-open carapace of some monster insect. Despite the complex and seemingly robust construction of these systems, it wasn't altogether an unknown occurrence for an iceboat's scoops to tear loose in the furious winds, leaving the boat with only secondary storage power to take it to the nearest haven before the passengers and crew froze to death. The chances of storage power driving an iceboat clear to safety were something of the order of one in twenty. Nobody rode the iceboats unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Phaid did his best to shut these thoughts out of his mind as he steered the flipper past the huge hawsers thicker than his waist, that secured the iceboats to the dock. He swung the machine into the dark entrance of the hangar and found that he was in a rather run-down combination of repair shop and vehicle park. A set of heavy duty blow heaters brought the temperature up to a level where human beings could walk around without bulky protective clothing, but few availed themselves of the warmth. The place wasn't exactly crowded. Bluehaven didn't seem to be doing a roaring trade. There were only five other flippers in the park. One was in pieces. A tech's legs protruded from under the jacked up rear end. As Phaid nudged his own machine into a parking slot and let off the force field cushion, the tech slid out and clambered to his feet. He was a young kid in a pale blue, lube-stained coverall. He had bad skin and wore his hair in a greasy pompadour with bushy side whiskers. Phaid climbed out of the flipper. The tech looked him up and down.

  'Where the hell did you come from?'

  Phaid blinked. Being back in the world of men was a shock. He was working on his own again. Solchaim abruptly receded in the general perspective. Phaid's sense of self flooded back. He faced the tech with a sour, tired expression on his face. His voice was very soft.

  'I've come a long, cold, hard distance. Who wants to know?'

  The tech was simultaneously hostile and defensive.

  'I'm only asking what the trip was like. We don't get much news in this Lord forsaken hole. I figure it ought to be just common-courtesy for anyone new to . . .'

  'Not this new arrival. All I want to know is how we get down below and into the warm.'

  'We're isolated people here on the margins, sir. We like to know something about the strangers who are passing through and . . .'

  The tech's voice faltered. Solchaim had stepped down from the flipper. His hat was pulled down and his cape was wrapped around his mouth so his face was virtually invisible. Despite that, his tall angular figure was still sufficiently odd to cause the tech to stare bug-eyed. The man's confusion doubled when Solchaim, with an almost courtly gesture, helped the two women down from the vehicle. This even surprised Phaid a little. He couldn't imagine how the elaihi had managed to get them awake and alert so quickly. Solchaim gestured at the tech.

  'Is this man causing us some sort of trouble, Master Phaid?'

  'No trouble at all, Master Solchaim. This man was about to direct us towards the elevators when he became tongue-tied at the sight of us.' Phaid felt the mildest twinge of reproof stir in his head, but Solchaim didn't seem to want to press the point. Phaid rounded on the tech. 'You were going to direct us to the elevators, weren't you?'

  The tech obviously knew that all was not right with this party of visitors but he appeared at a loss to work out what. He pointed sullenly towards the corner of the hangar. 'They're over there.'

  The two women still moved like zombies so Phaid ushered them quickly along. Solchaim had already started for the elevators. The tech suddenly pointed after Chrys-tiana-Nex.

  'I've seen her before.'

  Phaid halted. He pushed back the jacket of his cold suit so the tech could see his fuse tube. At the same time he flipped him a ten tab. . 'You've never seen her before in your life.'

  The boy caught the tab. He grinned knowingly at Phaid.

  'I'm sure I seen her before.'

  Phaid flipped another ten and then let his hand rest on his fuse tube.

  'You never saw her.'

  The tech pocketed the money, still grinning.

  'I never saw her.'

  Phaid hurried to the elevator with an uneasy feeling. Once the doors had closed behind him, he faced Sol­chaim.

  'We're going to have to get off the street and stay off the street, otherwise we'll be risking trouble. There are people who can recognise you, Chrystiana-Nex and even me. It'll be a miracle if we can get on an iceboat without someone spotting us and starting an alarm. Legally this is still the Republic.'

  Solchaim's voice came out muffled by his cape.

  'Who said we are going on an iceboat?'

  Phaid got impatient.

  'Why the hell else have we come here?'

  'Perhaps I should let you take care of this stage of our enterprise.'

  'I know enough not to argue.' 'So what do you recommend we do first?'

  Phaid was surprised.

  'Me?'

  'Yes you.'

  'I'd go as fast as we can to the town's hotel or inn and I'd hole us up there. Then I'd send out Edelline-Lan to arrange passage on an iceboat to the other side of the wind-plain.'

  Solchaim nodded in nonhuman approval.

  'Then that's exactly what we'll do.'

  The elevator doors opened on the main and only street of underground Bluehaven. Phaid wondered why so much was being delegated to him. Almost as soon as they had stepped out on to the street, he found out why. The elaihi's head sunk into his shoulders as though he was experiencing acute discomfort. Phaid caught an instant of backwash from his mind. It felt as though he was being nearly drowned in the hubbub of the hundred or so human minds in the small city. Phaid could only surmise that the proximity of a great number of human beings somehow swamped an elaihi's telepathic abilities and greatly dimi­nished his or her power. Phaid had, however, learned his lesson. He was not about to act precipitately on the theory.

  The inhabitants of Bluehaven were hardly the cream of Republic society. Life was hard out in the frozen margins. It was a transient refuge for rogues and cut-throats: it provided a cold and comfortless haven for men on the run and women losing their pride. It was the ideal place for anyone wanting to sink out of the main flow for a while. Anyone who signed on an iceboat didn't find themselves asked too many questions. Hard eyes followed Phaid and his party as they walked down the street. They were clearly being assessed and their possible worth valued. Phaid hoped that none of the sullen-faced watchers kept up with the news.

  The main street was like a high vaulted tunnel, with the facias of buildings built into the two walls. The building frontages had been carefully constructed so that they were exact facsimiles of normal, above ground buildings. Hang­ing signs proclaimed the existence of an inn, a general store, a cold zone chandler's, a shipping office and the seat of the city governor. It could have been the main street of any small, rather neglected port except th
at, instead of a sky above, there was a roof of hard packed permafrost supported by enormous beams. The street was pleasantly warm and bathed in a deep orange light. Phaid assumed that the choice of colour was a natural reaction to the chill blues, greys and white of the surface landscapes. Although the builders of Bluehaven had gone to a certain amount of trouble to make the main street look like a civilised surface town, the interiors of the buildings were little more than ice caves with furniture. The men and women who lived on the fringes of the icefields gave little thought to style or sophistication.

  The Bluehaven Inn had a broad and, by local standards, quite an imposing facade. It boasted a covered porch and broad steps up to a circular, multi-leaved iris doorway.

  Some time in the past someone must have had high hopes for the Bluehaven Inn. They were hopes which must have peeled over the years along with the paint. Now the steps were the focal point for local idlers and off-duty, out of work iceboat crew. Solchaim was the first figure they scrutinised when the four came down the street towards them. They didn't know what to make of him so they moved on to the more familiar ground of Phaid and the women. Phaid had the distinct impression that they took him for some sort of travelling pimp with his string of two. Phaid didn't mind this. People didn't ask questions when they'd already given themselves an answer.

  They registered as guests in front of a whey faced desk clerk with large, unnaturally moist eyes that refused to look directly at anyone. This was probably just as well. The two women both still wore glazed expressions although they were able to sign a pair of false names for the clerk. On the other side of the lobby a young man sat by himself. He was mumbling into thin air and brushing invisible insects from his hands and arms. Phaid looked questioningly at the desk clerk. 'What's the matter with him?'

  'Wind happy. It happens to them who make one too many trips on the boats.'