The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

'I suppose that's it, huh?'

  'Goodbye-Phaid.'

  'Goodbye, Ben-e.'

  Ben-e was silent for a moment. Then its sensors lit up to twice their normal brightness. It gave a drawn out, metallic sigh, then the brillance of its sensors faded away until they were scarcely glowing at all. Phaid looked around, a little alarmed. Harl-n had vanished, only Cron-Su remained, standing in the shadows of the workshop. Phaid glanced at her anxiously.

  'Is it okay? It looked as though it burned out or something.'

  'They all go that way.'

  'But is it okay?'

  'It's in the Life Game. What more can I say?'

  Phaid rapped sharply on the top of Ben-e's head.

  'Ben-e, can you hear me?'

  There was no answer.

  'It can't hear you. It's in a world of its own.'

  Phaid bent down and closely examined Ben-e's sensors. Then he straightened up.

  'It's beyond me.'

  'It's beyond all of us. We're only human.'

  'You spend all your time with androids?'

  'I've never been able to get on with people too well.'

  'Don't androids make you crazy?'

  Cron-Su's face twisted into a strange half smile, for the first time her eyes stopped moving.

  'There are compensations.'

  For an instant Phaid thought about Harl-n's warm moist tentacles. He quickly cringed away from the next idea. It was just too perverse.

  'I'd better be going.'

  'Yes.'

  'Take good care of my android.'

  'That's what we're here for.'

  'Yeah . . . right.'

  Phaid pulled open the rusty sliding door. It made an anguished, tortured sound. Phaid took a last look at Ben-e and then closed the door behind him.

  Phaid started walking. On the way to Acme Androids he had been so preoccupied with Ben-e and his business that he hadn't noticed quite what a rancid neighbourhood they'd come to. Now that he was on his own, it came forcefully home to him. He looked around for an autocab but there was no traffic at all on the rapidly darkening streets of warehouses and boarded up buildings.

  The area wasn't quite into the shacks and shanties that made up the worst of the northside. It was the shadowy, twilight area that lay between the poor quarters, the ones that still had a minimum of police and power, and the total squalor of the migrant jungles.

  An area like this was riddled with pitfalls for the unwary stranger. Although Phaid was far from being unwary, he was certainly a stranger. His good clothes marked him like a flashing sign. He knew that, if anyone was watching, and in these kind of places someone was always watching, he must be dangerously conspicuous among the bums, the winos, the drug addicts whose brains had gone soft, the hookers on their way down, the petty criminals and the just plain mad who found refuge in the twilight zone. Phaid felt his back stiffening. He let his right hand drop to his side where the fuse tube was concealed under his coat. He touched the butt for reassurance. It helped a little; not much, but a little. Phaid kept on walking. He had a constant urge to look behind him, but he resisted it. The surest way to get attacked and robbed was to make it clear that you were frightened.

  Phaid turned a corner, still going in what he thought was the direction of the walkway jump-on. Night was falling fast, and the few active glo-bars in the street he'd walked down had been less than adequate. The street that lay in front of him had no illumination at all. Every single glo-bar had either been shattered or had burnt out. Phaid walked slowly and carefully down the garbage strewn sidewalk. Something skittered from under his feet and darted away into a derelict basement. Phaid started, nerves jangling and adrenalin pumping, but it was only either a large rat or a small cat.

  Fervently hoping that he was going in the right direc­tion, Phaid went on down the street. When they'd been walking to Acme Androids, he hadn't bothered to take much notice of the route. He was starting to become aware just how dependent he had become on Ben-e during the short time they'd been together.

  He was also aware of something else. There was an occasional rustling sound from behind him. It could have been another animal rooting through the plentiful gar­bage, or it could have been someone following him on silent feet. The urge to stop and turn grew stronger and stronger. Phaid continued to resist it but with increasing difficulty.

  The rustling came again. This time it was too much for Phaid's already strained nerves. He spun around, hand going towards his fuse tube. To his embarrassment, he found the street completely empty. He slowly put the weapon away and was about to resume his journey when he heard a low sinister voice.

  'Hold it just like you are, friend. Don't make a move tor that tube. There are two big cannons pointed right at you. Now we don't want to burn you away, but if we gotta, we gonna.'

  Phaid froze. The voiced seemed to come from inside the dark, broken doorway of an abandoned building. There was a movement and two figures emerged. Wind masks covered their faces. In fact, only one had a blaster, but Phaid didn't feel cheated that the second weapon had turned out to be pure imagination. A single blaster was quite sufficient to stop all arguments he might have had.

  One of the thieves quickly went behind Phaid and snatched his fuse tube from out of its holster. The pair relaxed noticeably once Phaid was disarmed.

  'We'd like for you to make a donation to our cause. From the cut of that fancy coat, I'd say you could give generously.'

  'What cause might that be?'

  'It's 'cause we gonna blow you away if you don't.'

  They went into convulsions over the pun. Phaid wasn't carrying too much money. He'd hidden most of his remaining cash back in his hotel room. What worried him was that the two hold-up men might just take it into their heads to kill him anyway out of plain meanness. Phaid knew his only hope was to be as co-operative as possible.

  'I'll have to put my hand in my pocket to get out all the cash I've got on me.'

  'We'll put our hands in for you. Save you the trouble.'

  'Suit yourselves.'

  'We intend to. In fact, you can take off the coat altogether. I kind of like it.'

  Phaid sighed and started to take off his jacket. He made each movement slow and studied so the thief with the blaster wouldn't be panicked into thinking that he was going for a second, concealed weapon. To Phaid's sur­prise, the one nearest him, the one now holding his fuse tube, suddenly stopped him.

  'Hold on a minute, ain't you the gambling man?'

  This new tack totally confused Phaid.

  'What?'

  'You the gambling man, ain't you?'

  Phaid was immediately on his guard.

  'Yes, but . . .'

  'Phaid, right?'

  'That's right.'

  'I knew it, Phaid the gambler.'

  He turned to his companion who was standing a few paces off, covering Phaid with his blaster.

  'Hey, Digits, I want you to meet my old buddy, Phaid the gambler.'

  Digits wasn't at all pleased.

  'What the fuck you want to use my name for? You want him to know who I am? Now we gonna have to grease the pussy for our own protection.'

  The nearer of the pair was immediately placating.

  'Cool down, will you? This guy's okay. He's an old friend of mine.'

  Phaid was relieved to hear that he was okay. Digits, on the other hand, seemed less convinced. The blaster didn't waver.

  'You figure we can trust him?'

  'Sure we can trust him. He ain't no regular citizen, he's a gambling man. He's almost one of us, except . . .' The thief turned reproachfully to Phaid, '. . . how come you didn't recognise your old buddy, mister gambling man?'

  'The wind mask makes it a little difficult.'

  'Shit, I forgot about the damn thing. It's supposed to stop me being recognised.'

  He started tugging off the mask. Digits was horrified.

  'What the fuck do you think you're doing? You gone fucking crazy?'

  The first thief's reply was
muffled as he dragged the mask over his head. Finally, he tugged it completely off. Phaid found himself staring into a grinning, olive skinned face.

  'Now you know me, mister gambling man?'

  'Streetlife!'

  'Right, Streetlife. Feared by the bad, loved by the good.'

  'What the hell are you doing trying to pull stick-ups?'

  Streetlife spread his hands. They were very expressive hands with long, bony fingers.

  'You know how things are. Times get hard and you got to do all manner of weird stuff to make change.'

  'So times have got hard, huh?'

  'Strictly a temporary situation, strictly temporary.'

  Digits had still not lowered his blaster nor attempted to take off his mask. He was also looking more than a little impatient.

  'I don't wanna break up this touching reunion, but I gotta point out that this stick-up is only partway com­pleted, and I, for one, am starting to feel a trifle ridiculous standing here.'

  Streetlife was adamant.

  'This stick-up is over.'

  'Says who?'

  'Says me.'

  'You think I might have been consulted on this matter?'

  Streetlife clapped Digits on the arm.

  'Will you get off this? This here's a friend of mine. We can't go sticking him up, you hear me?'

  'He ain't no friend of mine.'

  'This ain't the time for no stick-ups or thievery. This calls for celebration.'

  Digits continued to scowl.

  'We broke and you damn well know it. We ain't got the wherewithal to do no celebrating. If we don't rob this pussy, we going to have to find us another one. otherwise we don't get to eat, let alone celebrate.'

  Phaid quickly stepped in, glad that he could contribute something to the conversation.

  'I got money, if that's the problem.'

  Streetlife beamed.

  'Well, my friend, if you going to do the buying then I know a cosy little joint not too far from here.' He turned to Digits. 'You hear that? The man here's buying the booze.'

  Digits didn't say anything. He eyed Phaid speculatively. Finally he lowered the blaster and started pulling off his mask.

  'You can buy me a drink.'

  Digits' acquiescence did nothing to make Phaid feel any more comfortable. Streetlife, on the other hand, seemed anxious to be away and start drinking up Phaid's money.

  'Let's go, shall we? Ain't no future standing around this cruddy street.'

  Phaid didn't move.

  'Now that you're not sticking me up, you think I could have my tube back?"

  Streetlife hefted the weapon.

  'Sweet little f-tube. You wanna sell it?'

  Phaid shook his head.

  'I think I'd be happier if I had it by my side.'

  Streetlife nodded.

  'You probably very wise.'

  With a certain reluctance, he handed the weapon back to Phaid. Digits snorted with digust.

  'Now you giving his fucking gun back.'

  Streetlife finally started to get annoyed.

  'So?'

  'So I think you gone insane. We come out here to get us some change and you wind up giving the mark his gun back. Where the fuck is that at?'

  'I keep telling you. He's a friend.'

  'Hmm.'

  'You trying to make something out of this?'

  Digits slowly shook his head.

  'I'll let it go for now.'

  'You do that.'

  Phaid, who was returning his fuse tube to its holster, raised an eyebrow in the direction of Digits. He didn't say anything but he knew that here was an individual in whom he could place no trust whatsoever, an individual on whom it wouldn't be wise to turn his back.

  Streetlife was anxious to move on to the drinking joint, so both Phaid and Digits fell in behind him. Phaid giving Digits a wide berth.

  Streetlife had been aptly named. He slipped through the shadows with the confident, sure-footed determina­tion of a cat, totally at home in its own alley. Skinny to the point that he seemed to be all arms, legs and grin, Streetlife appeared to be completely at home in his environment. On his own admission, he had recently hit a run of bad luck. It didn't, however, seem to phase him. For Streetlife, the world was a perpetual con game with him running the changes and everyone else potential suckers.

  They'd gone about two blocks, with Streetlife keeping up a constant line of patter that, amongst other things, stopped Phaid from asking too many questions about how Streetlife had managed to slip from being a fairly success­ful city centre hustler to having to pull hold-ups in the twilight zone with a character like Digits. Then, at the end of the third block, Streetlife suddenly halted and listened intently.

  'What's wrong?'

  Streetlife motioned urgently.

  'Hush up, I'm listening. You can't be too careful in these neighbourhoods.'

  Phaid held his breath. After a few moments he could hear something too. It was a combination of a murmur, a drone and a strange rhythmic snapping.

  'What the hell is that?'

  'Kid gang, by the sound of it, and coming this way. We better get off the street and quick.'

  Phaid frowned.

  'We're going to run from a gang of kids?'

  'Damn right we are.'

  'But we've got weapons.'

  'So have they, and they don't care if they lose a few of their number getting us.'

  'They're that bad?'

  'Worse.'

  Phaid shook his head.

  'Weird.'

  'Weird or not, we didn't ought to be standing round here arguing.'

  Streetlife pointed to a narrow passage that ran between two dark buildings.

  'We can hide in there. I doubt if they'll notice us.'

  He scampered off in the direction of the alley. Digits and Phaid followed, each constantly glancing back over his shoulder. The noise of the kid gang was getting louder. It seemed almost certain that they were going to come down this particular street.

  Crouching in the darkness, Phaid noticed that Streetlife was actually sweating.

  'You scared?'

  'Fucking right I'm scared.'

  'Of a bunch of kids?'

  'You don't know what they can do, else you'd be scared too. Just wait and watch and don't make a sound.'

  Phaid didn't have to wait long. The eerie noise grew louder and louder. Phaid could feel his own palms start to sweat. Just by itself there was something unpleas'antly menacing about the clicking and murmuring. Then he saw them, teenage boys in orange and blood-red, bare midriffs and long skirts, and heavy black eye make-up. Some carried burning torches that illuminated the procession with a hellish, unearthly light. They all snapped their fingers in what approached a drilled hysteria. Streetlife whistled under his breath.

  'Goddamn Scorpions. They the worst of the lot. They just mindless and savage. I once saw a kid after they'd finished with him. That young boy had been raped, tortured and damn near torn to pieces. It was an ugly sight, l can tell you.' Phaid shuddered.

  'Why do they do this stuff?'

  'Because the whole world's going to hell in a basket, and they're a part of it. If you unfortunate to get born in a place like this, at a time like this, you don't know nothing else but evil. There ain't no way to go but to the gangs.'

  The Scorpions passed. They'd failed to notice the three figures crouching in the alley. The sound of them started to fade into the background rumble of the city. Phaid slowly got to his feet. Dirt from the alley had messed up his breeches. He did his best to wipe if off with his hands.

  'Are there many gangs?'

  'Quite a few. The Scorpions are the meanest, except for maybe the Hogids.'

  'The Hogids?'

  'Oh, they real cute. They all wear these rubber pig head masks and carry long butchering knives. There are girls in the Hogids. They more vicious than the boys. In fact they so vicious that they make ordinary vicious look like tender loving care.'

  'I don't think I'd like to
meet them.'

  'I don't even want to talk about them. In fact, I don't even want to be out on the street. Let's go inside, with a drink in front of us, huh? I've had enough for tonight.'

  The drinking joint was little more than a converted cellar. The walls were damp to the touch. The bar was an arrangement of old packing cases, the furniture had obviously been scavenged from dumps and abandoned houses. The booze was almost unique in its distinctive, poisonous taste. Despite all this though, Phaid was glad to be off the streets, and beyond the reach of thieves and homicidal children.

  The joint's clientele was a representative cross section of the twilight zone. The cardinal rule seemed to be that one minded one's own business. This was strictly enforced by a massive balding man called Zeke, who had the most elaborately tattooed arms that Phaid had ever seen.

  With the first drink warming his insides, Phaid started quizzing Streetlife about what had been going on in Chrystianaville during his long absence. Most of what Streetlife had to say wasn't exactly encouraging.

  'I got to tell you, Phaid my friend, it's been bad. That's the only way to describe it. Everybody on every level's hustling and jockeying and stabbing each other in the back. It's got so you don't know which way to turn or who to trust.'

  Phaid sipped his drink and grinned. The day had been so bizarre that he felt as though he was past caring.

  'So what else is new?'

  'Hell, I know it was bad the last time you were here, but now, shit, it just completely out of hand. When you were last here, there were assholes running things. Now nobody is running things. The whole place is clear out of control.'

  'You got to be exaggerating.'

  'I swear to the Lords.'

  'So what about our great Life President? She used to have a grip on things.'

  'If she did, she must have lost it someplace along the line. Nobody even seen her, except on hologram, for an age now. The rumour is that she's locked herself away in one wing of the palace and she too paranoid to come out. The only person she listens to is that fucking elaihi.'

  'The one called Solchaim?'

  'You heard about him already?'

  'Not much, but I heard of him.'

  'Well, that's one pussy you don't gotta trust at all. A lot of people say he's at the base of the trouble. He got a finger in every conspiracy, and there's a million conspir­acies in this city, let me tell you. He plays off the President against the priests and the priests against the mobs, and the mobs against the rebels and from the rebels it goes back to the President. In the meantime, the officials tie everything in knots. That elaihi bastard got everybody jumping. It could be that he's the only one who got any control over the Republic at all, and he ain't doing nothing to make things better. Matter of fact, he's screw­ing us all into the ground.'