The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

  The line, however, paled into insignificance when the train itself rolled into sight. First of all, there was the sheer size of it. The multiple unit was as long as two city blocks and as high as a tall building. It straddled the line and pylons extending down on either side to little more than a few metres from the ground. To the casual observer, it seemed impossible that the delicate steel rail could support the awesome weight of the train. No one outside the marikhs quite knew how it did. Their engineering skills were their most closely guarded secrets.

  Just to make the system seem even more miraculous to the ordinary mortal, the train didn't actually touch the rail. Another set of force units on the underside of the train combined with the units on the rail to produce a field that separated train and track by a frictionless gap of some few centimetres.

  For anyone looking up at the great train, the first impression had to be one of a mighty mega structure, almost ornate in its complexity. Sun catchers bloomed like exotic flowers on the top of the vast machine. Tall exhaust stacks towered above them like pillars reaching for the sky. The sides of the machine were lined with view ports, and windows, large ones on the upper levels for the first-class passengers and smaller, meaner ones lower down for the poor and for those travelling on the cheap.

  As well as the windows, there were greenhouse-style viewing terraces, where plexiglass panels were set in ornate and highly polished brass fittings. Transparent observation blisters swelled from the corners and angles of the cars, while connecting tubes of the same material joined the various decks and sections.

  Shining and lovingly cared for blue and gold livery completed the picture of wealth and opulence. Phaid had become so used to looking at the broken and run down that the magnificence of the line train triggered a chord somewhere deep inside him.

  His new clothes helped. Fennella didn't offer a com­plete range of the latest styles, but he had managed to find himself a deep burgundy velvet jacket, some silk shirts, a pair of pale grey breeches and a pair of hand-made black boots. Ben-e had paid the bills, Makartur had groused about the extravagance of it all, but Phaid refused to allow anything to bring him down. He was on his way back to the good life, and nothing was going to get in the way. As he walked through the line terminal he held his head higher than he'd held it in a long time.

  The marikhs even went to a lot of trouble to make their terminals into places of beauty. The one in Fennella was situated under a low dome of multicoloured glass that broke the sunlight into pools of radiant brightness.

  Phaid grinned at Ben-e as they made their way to the first-class ticket office. 'This sure is the way to live.'

  'I-am-glad-that-you-are-pleased.'

  'Aren't you?'

  'I-am-not-programmed-to-appreciate-colour-relationships.'

  'That's too bad.'

  'I-have-my-own-sources-of-pleasure.'

  'You do?'

  'Of-course.'

  'What are they?'

  ' You-wouldn't-be-able-to-understand-them.' A pretty girl walked by in a loose, flowing shirt, skin tight breeches and long boots. Phaid turned to look at her. 'Now that's what you might call a source of pleasure.' He was still watching the girl when he collided with a small man dressed in a long black coat that buttoned high on the neck. Phaid immediately apologised, but the man didn't seem ready to be placated.

  'You want to watch where you're going instead of constantly lusting after women.' Phaid took a step back. 'I already said I was sorry.'

  'You could be sorrier still.'

  The little man's face somehow reminded Phaid of a reptile. It seemed ludicrous that he was being threatened by someone half his height, but, strangely, there was a definite menace about the man, not the menace of size or muscle, but that of someone who has access to some greater, undefined power. Phaid was still searching for a comeback when Makartur, who'd been walking some distance behind, loomed over both of them. 'You got a problem here, manny?' Phaid shrugged. 'I don't know.'

  Makartur turned his attention to the reptile man. 'Do we?'

  The reptile man took a look at Makartur's size and shook his head.

  'No, no problem.'

  With that, he scuttled away. Phaid watched him go with a thoughtful expression. Makartur looked at Phaid ques-tioningly.

  'What's with yon weasel faced character?'

  'I don't know. There was something about him.'

  'That shortass?'

  Phaid made a dismissive gesture.

  'Maybe not. Let's go.'

  Phaid wasn't as confident as he sounded. Somehow, the man had managed to cast a shadow over Phaid's good humour.

  Three first-class tickets got them on to the first-class escalator, and then on to the train. Uniformed stewards took their luggage and, with much bowing and scraping, showed them to their regally appointed, individual cabins.

  The marikhs were a strange people. Aside from their duties, they had absolutely no contact with anyone outside of their own kind. They maintained an elaborate, almost mathematical caste system which constantly maintained a set number of engineers, stewards, terminal staff and the lowest caste of all who did the dirty mechanical work in the bowels of the trains, the cleaning and laundering of bed linen, cooking and also the raising of children. The castes, as far as anyone outside the marikhs could tell, were worked out in a points system. A child would be tested for aptitude, awarded more points for the date and time of its birth, whether it was the first, second, third son or daughter or whatever, and finally the score was ad­justed according to what functions in the running of the line were falling short in their numbers.

  Although the marikhs ran their own affairs according to inflexible rules, they had an open, laissez faire attitude to the people who travelled in their care. Alcohol and narcotics were freely on sale, there was a good deal of discreet prostitution on the part of both sexes. Less commercial trainboard romance flourished in the ball­room, the cocktail bars, the restaurants and the club car, and was consummated in suites, staterooms and cabins. What interested Phaid more than anything else, however, was the well appointed gaming room where first-class passengers could win or lose large sums of money accord­ing to their luck, skill and inclination.

  Phaid's first move had nothing to do with either the gambling hall or the bars. He checked out the cabin, grinning broadly at the mirrors, the drapes, the needle jet shower stall, the built-in cocktail cabinet and, above all, the bed. After so many days and even more nights in the flop houses and cheap, back alley hotels that had gone before, white sheets and the quilted silk ciderdown seemed like the pinnacle of luxury. He removed his jacket and hung it in a closet, then he pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed.

  He hadn't actually meant to go to sleep, and he only closed his eyes to get the feel of it while he drank in the smell of clean linen. To his surprise, he found himself waking some hours later to the sound of a low pulsing hum and a gentle vibration. The train was rolling and he'd slept through the moment of departure as they accelerated away from Fennella.

  Feeling a little disappointed, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded over to the washstand. The cold water felt good on his face, and he toyed with the idea of taking a full scale tub and needle shower. The thought was tempting, but Phaid was too eager to be up and doing. He pulled on his boots and struggled into his jacket. His belt and fuse tube were also hanging in the closet. He wondered for a moment if he should strap it around his waist. He quickly dismissed the notion. What could possibly happen to him on a marikh line train?

  Phaid's first stop was the cocktail lounge by the A-deck observation gallery. The train was speeding through hilly, heavily wooded countryside. Flurries of snow swirled in the air beyond the ornamental glass. They were already on the section of line that skirted the very edge of the ice plains. Phaid realised that he must have slept longer than he had originally imagined.

  He ordered a drink and helped himself from the cold buffet. Then, with his immediate needs taken care of, he seated hi
mself on a barstool and checked out the room. Most of the travellers seemed to have taken tables beside the panoramic viewing windows to watch the landscape unfold beneath them. The marikh waiters, in their spot­less white jackets, scurried backwards and forwards with drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Nearer the bar, a young couple, a boy and a girl, obviously in the first throes of puppy love, stared dreamily into each other's eyes. Another couple, two exotically dressed and rather effe­minate youths, giggled together. The way they took every opportunity to touch each other, clearly demonstrated that they were lovers of a different kind. In total contrast, a third table was occupied by four middle-aged merchants in dark broadcloth robes who talked with a low voiced urgency of practised conspirators.

  It was then that Phaid spotted Makartur. He was sitting on his own in a remote corner, partially hidden by a luxuriant hanging plant. He glumly nursed a stein of ale and looked as though he felt totally out of place. Certainly his furs, leather and coarse homespun contrasted sharply with the tailored suits, the silks and velvets of the rest of the first-class passengers. He looked as though he would have been happier in a dim, smoky waterfront tavern than among the gilt, crystal and rose tinted mirrors of the cocktail lounge.

  Phaid smiled to himself and signalled to a passing waiter for a cigar. With it clenched firmly between his teeth,, he took his drink and went to join his erstwhile companion.

  Makartur didn't seem exactly pleased to see him. He glared sullenly at Phaid as he pulled out the chair opposite and made to sit down.

  'You look well at home in this place.'

  Phaid tapped the ash from his cigar.

  'You don't.'

  'I've no time for this frippery, the sooner I'm in Chrystianaville, the better I'll like it.'

  Phaid leaned back in his seat and made a sweeping gesture that took in the whole room.

  'While you're here, you might as well enjoy it.'

  Makartur's scowl deepened.

  'I'm on a journey. 1 see no reason for all this drinking and carrying on just to get from one place to the next.'

  Makartur nodded towards the two youths who were now holding hands and whispering in each other's ears.

  'Will you look at yon pair of primping nellies? I'd rather roll steerage than be thrown in with the likes of them.'

  'Did anyone ever tell you you're a bigot?'

  'I am what I am.'

  'Sure, a narrow minded hick from the hills.'

  Makartur's eyes flashed with a dangerous light. Phaid noticed that he still had his blaster strapped to his hip. Phaid realised that he was walking on very thin ice. He did his best to get back to land.

  'You never did tell me why you were going to the Republic.'

  'That's right, I didn't.'

  'None of my business, right?'

  That's the first intelligent thing you've said in a long time.'

  'You make a wonderful conversationalist.'

  'Nobody asked you to sit down here.'

  Phaid slowly got to his feet.

  'I guess I should maybe go play some cards.'

  'Why don't you do that. It's about your measure.'

  Phaid swallowed the last of his drink.

  'Yeah, why don't I. I'll be seeing you.'

  'One thing before you go, manny.'

  'What?'

  'I have a feel about you.'

  'Feeling?'

  'I have a warrior feeling. You grew up in the hills, the low hills, but the hills all the same, you know what I mean by a warrior feeling, don't you manny?'

  Phaid tried to stop a look of fear squirming across his face. A warrior feeling, a karses, was a violent piece of superstition that could lead to the spilling over of berser­ker rage. Whole villages had, in the past, been slaught­ered because of a warrior feeling. This explained a lot of Makartur's strange hostile attitude. Phaid knew that the only thing that he could do was to slowly nod.

  'I know.'

  'I have a warrior feeling that a bad fate falls between the two of us. I don't know what it is, but it's bad.'

  Phaid's palms were sweating. If the feeling was bad and lay between the two of them, Phaid knew that Markatur could be of great danger to him.

  'What do you intend to do about this feeling?'

  'I will consult with my ancestors and then we will both know the truth. Until that time we will stay apart from each other.'

  Phaid nodded. He knew he was going to stay as far away from Makartur as possible. Hopefully Chrystiana­ville would be sufficiently big so the two of them wouldn't have to run into each other. As Phaid walked away, he did his best to put the big man and his mystic feelings out of his mind. So they'd crossed the desert, then he'd needed him. Now he was back in what he thought of as his own territory. He had no further use for an unpredictable, semi-savage warrior as a companion. He left the lounge and took a deep breath as though shacking off the sense of gloom. It didn't quite work, but it was a passable imita­tion.

  He didn't go directly to the gaming room. Along the companionway there was an empty observation bubble. Phaid stepped into it and gazed out at the passing scenery. Night was starting to fall and the lights of some small town drifted past on the horizon. There was something about the lights that depressed Phaid. They represented a solid­ity; families in warm, cosy houses, secure and snug with the snow drifting down outside. It was something that Phaid had never known. He had spent all his life hustling and would probably go on hustling until the day he died.

  He was just working up to a full blown bout of self pity when a voice from behind interrupted him.

  'Well, well, it's the young man who can't look where he's going.'

  Phaid felt a slight chill run up the back of his neck. He turned very slowly, wishing that he still had his fuse tube with him. The small reptilian man in the black coat; the one he'd knocked into at the terminus, was standing in the entrance to the bubble, regarding him with a thin lipped, humourless smile.

  'I see you are no longer carrying that fearsome weapon.'

  Something about the man made Phaid feel acutely ill at ease. It was almost as though he was reading Phaid's mind. Even so, Phaid did his best to put on a pleasant expression.

  'What can happen on a line train?'

  'It's surprising what can happen anywhere, anytime.'

  Without any change of tone the man had managed to make the simple statement sound like a threat. Phaid decided to ignore the thought. He smiled blandly.

  'I'm sure the marikhs have everything buttoned down tight.'

  As far as Phaid was concerned, that was the end of the conversation. He made a move to leave the bubble, but the little man showed no sign of moving. Instead, he started in to what almost amounted to an interrogation.

  'What has happened to your two companions, the hill man and the android?'

  Phaid still tried to keep things on a light casual level.

  'The android's turned himself off and the other one's in the viewing lounge bar, not liking it one bit.'

  'Strange companions.'

  'Useful if you have to cross a desert.'

  'You crossed the desert? Where from?'

  Phaid was starting to lose patience. 'The other side.'

  The reptile man ignored the insult and extended a hand. 'My name's Dreen.'

  'Phaid.'

  Dreen's hand was cold and slighly damp. 'Yes.'

  It was as if Dreen already knew about Phaid. 'Strange people.'

  'Who are?'

  'Those hill clans.'

  'Like Makartur, you mean?'

  Phaid could have bitten his tongue. The last thing he'd meant to do was to blurt out the big man's name. The sinister aura that wrapped around Dreen like an invisible cloak made Phaid unwilling to let slip even the slightest titbit of information. The name was more than a slight titbit, too. The hill people were superstitious about their names. They believed that anyone who knew a man's name had a certain power over him.

  Dreen regarded Phaid with a cold smile. For a second time, Phaid had the
feeling that somehow Dreen could read what he was thinking.

  'That's the name of your companion?' Phaid started to get angry. 'Look, what's all this about?' Dreen ignored him.

  'Yes, strange people, the hill tribes. A lot of them still cling secretly to the proscribed beliefs.'

  Phaid didn't like the sound of this at all. He started to wonder if Dreen was a spy for the priests. He put on his most innocent expression.

  'I don't get involved in religion.'

  Dreen looked at him as if he'd admitted that he raped small children.

  'Not being involved in religion can be a dangerous business.'

  Phaid tried his hand at being cryptic. 'I never take risks.'

  'That's very wise.'

  Phaid decided that he'd had enough of the conversa­tion.

  'Listen, this is all very fascinating, but I was on my way to the gaming room. So if you don't mind . . .'

  'You're a gambler?'

  'I like a wager.'

  'I thought you didn't take risks.'

  'It needn't be a risk if you know what you're doing.'

  Dreen finally stepped out of the way.

  'Good luck then.'

  'Thanks.'

  'Maybe you'll need it.'

  Phaid walked quickly away. He was almost certain that Dreen was a spy for the priests. It wasn't a pleasant idea. Why the hell would the priests be interested in him? He wasn't anyone, just a rambler and not very successful gambler. He wasn't involved in anything. The thought crossed his mind that maybe Dreen was nosing around because he had heard about Phaid's chance encounter with the elaihim. That scarcely seemed possible though. There hadn't been time, and he hadn't spoken to anyone. Then it occurred to him that maybe the little man wasn't after him at all. Maybe it was Makartur he was after. For a moment he was tempted to go back and warn Makartur, but he got angry and dismissed the idea. Makartur and his damned feeling could look after themselves. They wouldn't thank Phaid for his help. He went straight to the gaming room, anxious for the rich aroma of brandy and cigar smoke to take away the unpleasant smell of orga­nised religion.