The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

  Phaid was thoughtful.

  'It's always disconcerting to find that you're no longer top of the heap.'

  Streetlife looked up sharply.

  'What you say?'

  Phaid shook his head.

  'It wasn't anything. Just something somebody said to me once.'

  Streetlife cocked his head to one side.

  'You know something, Phaid? You look different, my friend.'

  'How different?'

  'Older maybe. Less crazy.'

  'I've been away a while.'

  'Maybe that's it.'

  'You seem to have had your troubles.'

  Streetlife made a dismissive gesture.

  'It's all temporary. There are just someplaces I shouldn't go back to for a while, that's all.'

  'Seems like there's a hell of a lot of places you can't go back to if you got to hang out in a dump like this.'

  Streetlife laughed.

  'Well, that is true, but I'm expecting things to change very soon.'

  'Aren't we all.'

  'You gotta be positive in this life.'

  Phaid looked at him intently.

  'Are there any places I maybe didn't ought to go back to?'

  'You?'

  'I did leave here under something of a cloud.'

  'Hell, your troubles have been all over for a long time. Llap's dead, Morcis left town and Garette-Roth hasn't been seen in over a year. You got nothing to worry about.'

  'That's good to hear.'

  'Wish I could come back too.'

  'I wish you could. If there's anything that I can do . . .'

  Streetlife waved away the offer of help.

  'Thanks all the same, but there ain't nothing anyone can do. I just have to wait this thing out.'

  Phaid had a thought.

  'Do you know anything about a guy called Orsine?'

  Streetlife shrugged.

  'Sure, he's big in the Cousins. Everybody knows that much. I ain't never met him or done business with him. He way up in the big league. From what I hear, though, he's a man with troubles.'

  'What kind of troubles?'

  'His number two is a character called Scarlin-Fell. He one ambitious son of a bitch. He ain't going to be happy until he number one.'

  'So why doesn't Orsine off him?'

  'He does a good job, and a lot of the rank and file are behind him. If Orsine put a crease in him without a lot of very obvious reasons, it could split the Cousins right down the middle. Orsine had also got bit by the society bug. He spends a hell of a lot of his time moving in court circles, although what he wants to hang out with that gang of fancy dressed vipers for beats me.'

  'The court don't change.'

  'Sure it changes. It gets worse. Anyway . . .' Streetlife went back to the original story '. . . the guys on the streets, the ones who actually do the day to day running of the rackets, don't rate his high society bit. There's rum­bles going round that they don't feel that he's taking care of business the way he ought to be. 'Course, there are always rumbles and tradition's so strong among the Cousins that it'd take more than just a few rumbles to topple an Adjudicator, but . . .'

  'But he's a man with troubles.'

  'You got it. What you want to know about him for, anyway?'

  'He invited me to eat with him.'

  Streetlife let out a low whistle of surprise and admira­tion.

  'You riding in some heavy traffic, gambling man.'

  Phaid thought about it.

  'Maybe I am, at that.'

  Streetlife looked concerned.

  'You wanna be real careful. Them Cousins' loyalties are strictly to each other, first and last. If you ain't one of them you can never really know what they're going to do next. You can think you're real tight and friendly with them, and then, without even knowing it, you get between them and something they want and . . .' Streetlife theatri­cally snapped his fingers'. . . goodbyee.'

  Phaid grunted.

  'I've had dealings with them before. I'll be careful.'

  The bar was starting to fill up and, as a consequence, become noisier and sweatier. Phaid was tired. It had been a long hard day, and Mariba had prevented him from getting much sleep the night before. Phaid knew it was time to start back for his hotel. He downed the rest of his drink.

  'Can I get an autocab out of here?'

  Streetlife laughed and shook his head.

  'No chance, my friend. An autocab would be crazy to come anywhere near here. If it didn't get robbed, the kids would, like as not, set fire to it.'

  Phaid grimaced.

  'Shit. I don't much relish the idea of the walkways after dark.'

  'Maybe I can fix something for you.'

  'Yeah?'

  Streetlife turned and gestured to a kid who was loung­ing against the wall.

  'Hey, Zero, run over to Aunt Bill's and find Bron. Tell him to fetch that elderly heap of his. I got a guy here that needs a run to the centre.'

  'What's in it for me?'

  Streetlife grinned.

  'I break your bones if you don't.'

  'What if Bron don't want to come?'

  'He'll come.'

  Bron's flipper was about the most dilapidated vehicle still capable of moving that Phaid had ever seen. Half of the body panelling was missing. What was left was scratch­ed, dented and losing its paint. The force field that kept it off the ground was partially malfunctioning and the flipper sagged dangerously to one side. Bron noticed Phaid inspecting the beat-up machine. He scratched his gut and belched.

  'It may not look like much, but it runs.'

  Phaid was about to pop the bubble open and step inside the flipper when Digits lurched drunkenly out of the bar and aimed himself at Phaid.

  'I missed you today, but I'll have you sometime, you can count on that.'

  Phaid's mouth twisted into a sneer.

  'I'll hold my breath.'

  'Fuck you, you pussy.'

  Digits swung at Phaid, but his co-ordination was so out of whack that Phaid easily avoided the punch. He grabbed Digits by the front of his shirt and pushed him hard backwards. Digits staggered and crashed heavily against the wall. He fumbled for his blaster, but Phaid already had his own fuse tube in his hands.

  'You just try it, asshole! Just pull out that cannon. I've taken enough shit from you. It'd give me a lot of pleasure to burn you down.'

  Digits glared at him with dull hatred, but he let his hands drop away from the blaster. Still holding his fuse tube, Phaid ducked into the flipper. Bron glanced curious­ly at him but said nothing and concentrated on coaxing the flipper into wheezing, grinding life. The kindest thing that anyone could say about Bron's driving was that it was erratic. He pushed the antique flipper as hard as it would go, flashing through intersections, up ramps and across stretches of overpass with an almost artistic disregard for life, limb or traffic safety. Phaid, who had abandoned himself totally to higher powers, realising that he could exert absolutely no control over either Bron or his rattle­trap machine, was pleasantly surprised when they arrived at their destination in one piece. Phaid paid the fat driver leaving him fruitlessly cursing out a cybernetic traffic handler. A male prostitute was working the street in front of the hotel. He wore a flowing plum coloured shirt but was naked from the waist down. He threw Phaid a heavily roughed smile. As Phaid avoided the open invitation, he made a mental note of how things in Chrystianaville had become very blatant.

  The first thing he did when he got to his room was, from force of habit, to check that his money and possessions were still as he had left them. Once he was satisfied that nothing had been tampered with, he kicked off his boots and lay down on the bed. He sighed, closed his eyes and discovered perversly that he suddenly wasn't tired. It was his first night in the city and it seemed ridiculous to spend it getting an early night in his hotel room.

  There was a small compact entertainment unit in the corner of the room. Phaid padded over to it and gave it a cursory inspection. The first thing that he discovered
was that it required a tab to start it working. Chrystianaville was not the kind of place where you got anything for nothing. Phaid fed a tab into the slot and punched up the drama selection.

  He'd been out of the city for so long that none of the titles listed were familiar to him. He picked one at random. All that appeared on the screen was a multi­coloured snowstorm. Either the unit was malfunctioning, or atmospheric interference was particularly bad that day.

  This was one of the many unfortunate side effects of the world's violent weather system. For centuries, interfer­ence from atmospherics had made any kind of long range electronic communication virtually impossible. The only methods that could be relied upon were either land lines or line of sight transmissions over short distances. This inability to send messages instantly from city to city had contributed a great deal to the fragmentation and isolation that was the curse that extended all over the world.

  Right at the moment, though, Phaid didn't give a damn about the world's problems. He wasn't ready to sleep and he was bored. He wondered if the hotel ran a bar. He doubted it. Most android operated places had a certain spartan style about them that seemed to preclude things like bars and restaurants.

  Phaid debated whether he should simply hit the street and trust to luck. It wasn't an idea that exactly filled him with enthusiasm. After one random experience on the streets of the city, he didn't feel ready to plunge straight into another. On the other hand, a drink, some female companionship, a game of chance or any combination of the three had a very strong appeal.

  Apart from the entertainment unit, the only thing in the room that Phaid could play with was a small, sound only, comset. Phaid picked it up and an android voice came on the line.

  'May-I-help-you?'

  'I'd like to make an outside call.'

  'Within-the-city-limits?'

  'Yes.'

  'Just-give-me-the-name-of-the-party-to-whom-you-wish-to-speak-and-I-will-endeavour-to-connect-you.'

  'The name is Edelline-Lan.'

  'One-moment.'

  Phaid's earpiece was filled with the multiple tone bleat­ing of android noise. Finally a second android voice answered.

  'This-is-the-residence-of-Edelline-Lan. Who-is-this-calling?'

  'My name is Phaid.'

  'Would-you-please-turn-on-your-vision-facility.'

  Phaid raised an eyebrow.

  'I don't have a vision facility on this set.'

  'I-see.'

  Although Phaid knew it must be his imagination, he couldn't help feeling that the android was putting him clown.

  'Would-you-please-wait?'

  'Sure.'

  While Phaid hung on, he made a mental observation that Edelline-Lan must be pretty well heeled if she could afford to keep an android to monkey block her comcalls. Finally a human voice came out of Phaid's set.

  'So, Phaid. You just couldn't wait to talk to me?'

  'Something like that.'

  'Well, don't be so damn non-committal.'

  'I'm sorry. I just couldn't wait any longer to talk to you. How's that?'

  'Better. What have you been doing all day?'

  Phaid decided not to tell her the story of Ben-e and his trip to the northside. People who owned androids weren't likely to be overly sympathetic towards other people who helped them defect into the Life Game.

  'I had some chores that needed taking care of.'

  'You've taken care of them?'

  'All squared away.'

  'And now you want to play?'

  'The thought had crossed my mind.'

  'You want to go out?'

  'Fine. I'm up for anything.'

  'Good. I'd had half a mind to go to this new place that's opened up near the Palace. It's called the Punishment of Luxury.'

  'Sounds okay by me.'

  'Why don't you come by and pick me up here.'

  'Where's here?'

  She gave him detailed directions for getting to her apartment.

  'Oh, by the way, are you anything of a voyeur?'

  'I'd usually rather be an active participant.'

  'Yes, I've heard all about that. I ran into Mariba on the way back from the terminal. From her description, it sounded as though the two of you had quite a busy night. I gather she performed her usual trick of getting you to tie her up.'

  'Doesn't anyone keep secrets any more?'

  'Not in this town.'

  Phaid made a second mental note not to do or say anything that he didn't want to be common gossip inside a matter of hours.

  'Why did you ask me if I was a voyeur?'

  Edelline-Lan laughed.

  'You'll find out.'

  Chapter 12

  The girl on the stage was resplendent in a baroque creation of black leather. It nipped in her waist, pushed up her breasts. It was cut away high on the hips in order to make her legs seem fantastically long. This effect was also supplemented by the ridiculously high, sharply spiked heels of matching leather-thigh-length boots. The cos­tume was completed by a pair of black evening gloves that completely covered her arms to well past the elbows. There was a tattoo of a small bird on her left shoulder.

  She posed arrogantly in the centre stage spotlight. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a confection of spun gold, and her skin had been oiled until it shone under the lights. In her right hand she held a long, plaited whip. She flicked it now and then, almost languorously, as though tantalising the audience, milking their anticipation of the spectacle of violence that would follow.

  The other character in the drama was a total contrast. The man was naked, his body bound tightly to a towering tripod device, his feet pinned at two points on the base and his arms stretched up above his head where his manacled wrists were secured almost at the apex. In the stark stage lighting his flesh seemed brilliantly white and very, very vulnerable. He was positioned facing away from the girl, his shoulders, back and buttocks exactly right to suffer the full assault of the lash.

  Like the girl, he had golden hair, but that was where the resemblance ended. Where she radiated a feeling of sleek, muscular cruelty, he was slim, almost to the point of being willowy. In his state of helpless exposure, he seemed close to fragile.

  The girl flicked the whip with a little more force. It was an authoritative gesture, like the conductor of an old fashioned orchestra rapping with his baton for silence amongst the musicians. Conversation in the dark side of the nightclub's footlights dwindled down to silence. Attention was totally focused on the brilliantly lit stage.

  The crowd seemed to hold its breath as the girl slowly swung her arm back. Then it flashed forward. Drinks were set aside and expressions became rapt in concentration. The whip cracked. The man gasped loudly and a kind of sigh rippled through the audience. An angry red welt now ran down half the length of the man's back. Edelline-Lan leaned close to Phaid and breathed in his ear.

  'I've heard that they're drugged, so it doesn't actually hurt as much as it appears.'

  'That's a great consolation.'

  The girl continued to flog the man on the tripod with slow, measured strokes. Where at first he'd only gasped, now he screamed shrilly, writhing and struggling, desper­ately trying to save his pale body from the agony of the whip. Phaid slowly shook his head as though he didn't quite believe what he was watching.

  'How do they get people to do this sort of thing?'

  Edelline-Lan grinned wickedly.

  'I shouldn't think that the girl was too hard to find. I wouldn't mind having a go at that myself. I think the costume's kind of cute.'

  'Yeah, but what about the man, the poor bastard who's getting his back laid open. How the hell did they recruit him?'

  'I've heard that a lot of them come from the northside. Those people will do just about anything to get out of the shanty towns.'

  Phaid didn't like the sound of the way she talked about 'those people' as if the poor were some different, distant species. He didn't, however, say anything. Edelline-Lan seemed fascinated by the squirming, b
ound figure.

  'It could be that he's having the time of his life. I always work on the principle that if you can imagine it, some­body, somewhere is probably doing it and enjoying it.'

  The girl on the stage had now dropped her whip and was standing facing the crowd in a spread-legged stance. Earlier, Phaid had noticed a studded strip of leather attached to the crotch of her outfit. Phaid had assumed that it was simply a vaguely phallic piece of decoration. To his surprise, he found that the thing was actually stiffening into an overt penis parody.

  As the thing increasingly stood out, erect from the girl's body, the club audience whistled and cheered as though helping it in the stiffening process. Once the fake penis was fully erect, the girl, hands on hips, sauntered towards the still quivering man. She paused to run her hands over his scarred and bloody back, and then thrust the dildo viciously between his buttocks. This was more than Phaid could take. He reached quickly for his drink.

  'This place is fucking gross.'

  The man was screaming again as the girl pumped the studded monster in and out of him. Edelline-Lan looked disdainfully at Phaid.

  'I think you're supposed to murmur, "divinely deca­dent", darling.'

  This isn't decadent, it's just plain revolting.'

  'Don't be so provincial.'

  The man gave a final, drawn out scream. The girl ripped out the dildo and turned to face the audience with a triumphant grin. As the curtains dropped, they broke into rapturous applause. A rodent-like compere in a silver suit scuttled on to the stage, bowing and leering.

  'Thank you, thank you, thank you. That was Slav and Wanda with their presentation, "Symphony of Pain". I guess we'll be seeing them again real soon, once Stav's back has healed. And, moving right along, as the android said to the acolyte, we come to the Unbelievable Tonee.'

  The Unbelievable Tonee's act consisted of him pushing long steel rods through the flesh of a pair of nubile but zombie-like assistants. This was really too much for Phaid. After downing three drinks in quick succession, he finally stood up.