The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

  'TRAITORS. YOU NOW BRING YOUR FILTH AND DESTRUCTION TO MY PALACE. YOU BRING IT RIGHT TO ME. YOU WANT TO DESTROY ME! YOU WANT TO DESTROY ME!'

  The guards had drawn their fuse tubes. The ones kneeling rested the long barrels over crooked arms. The ones standing used a double-handed grip, arms fully extended.

  'TRAITORS!'

  A few others had realised what was happening and were backing away from the ramp.

  'TRAITORS. THERE IS NO HOPE FOR ANY OF YOU! YOU HAVE ONLY ONE THING LEFT FOR YOU AND THAT IS TO ... DIE!'

  The discharge from the massed fuse tubes lashed out like a sheet of blue white flame, marbled with the darker blue bolts from the photon cannons. The Plaza was turned instantly into a killing floor. It wasn't a battle, more a surgical operation. Above the hideous crackle Chrystiana-Nex's voice went on.

  'THERE IS NOTHING FOR TRAITORS BUT DEATH. THIS IS AS PAINFUL TO ME AS IT IS TO YOU, BUT TREASON CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO FESTER IN THIS CITY. IF IT IS NOT RIPPED OUT, OUR CITY WILL DIE.'

  The Palace Guards went on and on firing. The actual cobbles of the Plaza were starting to crack and smoke. A few of the rebels had attempted to stand and fight back, but they had no chance. It was a massacre. The Palace Guard didn't even have the slight qualms that the police had shown. They were scything everyone down, marchers and cops alike.

  Phaid had reached the steps that led down to Nex Boulevard before the guards had opened fire with their fuse tubes. At the first crackle, Phaid had thrown himself flat, not even bothering that it was a painful thing to do halfway down a flight of steps.

  A number of other people were sheltering along with him. Behind them on Nex Boulevard, the remnants of the march were fleeing to safety. In front of them, on the Plaza, there was neither shelter nor safety.

  To Phaid's amazement, he saw a small transport bed careening down the Boulevard at high speed, doing its best to dodge photon bursts. Phaid could only assume that it was being driven by a madman. A few people were clinging to the baggage deck for dear life.

  The machine slewed to a halt at the foot of the steps where Phaid was sheltering, scraping its underside along the road surface in the process and all but spilling its precariously perched passengers.

  Urgent voices started shouting.

  'Quick, quick! Get on!'

  Phaid was on his feet and running down the remainder of the steps. Others followed, but the majority seemed too paralysed by shock to make the break.

  Hands reached out to help him as Phaid ran up along­side the transport. He and the others had no sooner been hauled aboard than it took off with a scream of accelera­tion from a loudly protesting drive unit.

  Dark blue photon bursts flared around them. Phaid grabbed whatever handholds he could find and clung to them grimly. He was certain that, if they weren't blasted to their constituent atoms at any second, he was sure to be flung off the next time the driver took a corner. Then, almost by a miracle, they were in a side street and out of the line of fire. The driver slowed down a little and the passengers scrambled for safer positions on the baggage deck.

  Phaid found himself beside a stern faced woman wear­ing the long coat that marked her as an active rebel. He nodded towards the transport bed's closed driving cab.

  'Who are these guys?'

  'I guess they must be some of the boys. Whoever they are, we owe them our lives.'

  Phaid nodded quickly.

  'Amen to that. Where do you think we're headed now?'

  'Northside I'd imagine, probably to the Angel of Des­tiny. The bitch's flunkies don't have the courage to follow us there.'

  'What's the Angel of Destiny?'

  The woman shot him a hostile and suspicious look.

  'What are you?'

  'Not much.'

  The woman looked him up and down.

  'I can see that.'

  She turned her back on him as if to make it clear that she didn't think Phaid was worth consideration by a serious, fighting revolutionary.

  Just like the woman had said, the transport bed negoti­ated its way out of the chaos of the city centre and made for the main route to the northern part of the city.

  As the journey went on, the passengers started to get over some of their shock and relax. Conversations started, to the extent that the wind whipping past the fast moving transport would allow. The woman next to Phaid didn't deign to speak to him again, however.

  He started to notice that the north was totally in the hands of the rebels. Groups of armed citizens patrolled the streets and the buildings were daubed with slogans proclaiming that it was liberated territory. More sinisterly, he also caught a brief glimpse of a body hanging from a translux pole. There was a placard around its neck that read 'Enemy of the People'. Phaid began to realise how much those who lived in the centre of the city were being isolated and misinformed.

  They'd almost reached the start of the shanty towns before the transport bed turned off the main highway. They swung into the forecourt of what had obviously been a somewhat run down roadhouse until very recently when the rebels had converted it into a makeshift headquarters.

  Phaid couldn't imagine what fevered rebel mind had decided to dub the place the Angel of Destiny. There were few structures on the northside that could carry such a pompous and overblown title, and this certainly wasn't one of them.

  Originally it had been a cheap, gaudy roadhouse called the Belly O'Beer. This was still evident from a number of small signs that the rebels had neglected to obliterate. The Belly O'Beer's main architectural claim to fame was a giant squat tower fashioned from plasteel and rock foam to look like a beer mug, complete with handle and fake brimming head frozen in the act of spilling over and running down the side of the mug. The rebels had attempted to disguise the true nature of the tower by some crude repainting. It was of little avail. There is really no way to disguise a three-storey beer mug. They had even attempted to burn off the handle with blasters, but the rock foam had managed to resist their efforts.

  Apart from the tower, the place was little more than a collection of prefabricated plasteel boxes huddled in the middle of a parking lot and surrounded by some makeshift and hastily installed fortifications.

  The transport bed laden with people was obviously a familiar sight to those on guard around the converted roadhouse. A few waved, but most paid it no mind at all. The driver manoeuvred his way around the defences, across the parking lot and finally came to a halt among the ramshackle collection of vehicles. Phaid suspected that these were most probably the bulk of the rebels' ground fleet.

  The passengers began to climb down from the machine. Without anyone to give instructions, they stood around wondering what they ought to do next.

  The transport driver jumped down from his cab, grin­ning and rubbing his hands together. He was a red-faced, jovial looking character who seemed to be highly amused at his near suicidal rescue. His smile broadened as most of his passengers crowded around, wanting to pat him on the back, shake his hand or kiss him. He soaked up the gratitude for a while and then detached himself and started herding his flock towards the main building.

  'Let's go on inside. You'll be able to get a meal and a drink if you're lucky.'

  Phaid followed the general movement. He was so profoundly glad to have survived the day that he didn't even bother to wonder where the immediate future might lead. As he walked towards the collection of buildings, Phaid noticed that, although the Angel of Destiny's defences looked rough and ready, they also seemed fairly formidable. The whole of the parking lot was strung with jolt relays and patrolled by heavily armed groups of men and women.

  Phaid also noticed that new walls and trenches were being constructed by sweating work gangs. From their dull hungry faces and the blaster toting overseers, it was apparent that they had been forced into the work rather than freely volunteering. Phaid didn't like to think of what you had to do to get on one of those work gangs.

  The refugees' first stop was what must have been the Belly O' Beer's main bar
room. It was still being put to use for something close to its original purpose. Hot food and drink were being served to a constantly moving line. The last thing that Phaid needed was a hot meal, but he joined the line just the same, mainly out of a need for something to do.

  The bar had been turned into a combination of canteen, meeting place, information centre and waiting room for those who had no other place to go. Phaid knew, much to his discomfort, that he fell squarely into that last category.

  Even more uncomfortable, was the way that Phaid found himself the target of questioning and even hostile stares. He realised that it must be his clothes that were doing it. Even though they were now scorched, torn and streaked with dirt and vomit, they still looked like the garb of a city socialite rather than a fighting northside rebel. Feeling acutely uncomfortable, Phaid stared around the room, doing his best to avoid curious eyes.

  Almost the whole of one wall was given over to what amounted to a huge bulletin board. It was festooned with notices and announcements of every possible kind pinned over the nudes and beer advertisements that had been its previous decoration.

  There were political slogans and appeals for news of missing friends or relatives; there were duty rosters and lists; pictures of people that Phaid totally failed to recog­nise; announcements of rallies and mass meetings; lists, orders and instructions; there were even schematics for most models of blasters.

  There were also weapons in abundance. Almost every­one in the place seemed to be wearing some kind of lethal device. Phaid was quite glad that he had his large fuse tube on his belt and Roni-Vows' miniature blaster in his pocket.

  More weapons were leaning against walls and left casually on tables. Pairs of chairs had been pulled together and turned into makeshift beds. Some groups played cards, others argued in what seemed to be non-stop political debate. These discussions went round and round but managed nothing close to a final conclusion.

  The walls were piled with cases, boxes and barrels, presumably looted supplies that had yet to find themselves a permanent storage place. Children bounced around, playing under the chairs and tables of the one-time bar. Occasionally their running and shouting would upset a sleeper, who would curse them out and then fall asleep again.

  The air was heavy with steam and the combined smell of sweat, cooking food, unwashed bodies. It all added up to a picture of continuously shifting confusion. The revolt had obviously grown too fast for those who were engaged in it. There was no way that the rebels' minuscule organisation could cope with the droves of people whom the street fighting had pushed into the cause.

  While Phaid waited in the food line, it occurred to him that anyone with both the organising capacity to make sense out of this chaos and the charisma to carry the various rebel splinter groups behind him could be the new ruler of the Repubic. It wasn't a job that Phaid would have willingly taken.

  Phaid reached the head of the line and was rewarded with a plate of watery stew and a mug of cloudy beer. The rebels might have justice on their side, but the oppressors received far better service.

  Phaid was looking around for a place to sit when a total stranger grabbed him by the arm.

  'Hey, I know you!'

  Stew spilled down Phaid's already filthy coat. He cursed under his breath, and then looked at the man who'd grabbed him.

  'You do?'

  The face was gaunt and badly in need of a shave. From the man's stained clothes and the blaster hanging from a shoulder strap, it was clear that he had seen his fair share of fighting. He made no connections in Phaid's memory. He nonetheless continued to grin.

  'You was on Veldine Street during the first riot.'

  'I was?'

  'Sure you was, with a real expensive looking woman. I thought to myself at the time, look at that dumb bastard. I thought you was some courtier out slumming and got caught up in the trouble.'

  Phaid didn't like the way the conversation was going. He remembered the body hanging from the translux pole.

  'That's what you thought, was it?'

  'Until I saw you fold those two cops and I knew you couldn't be no courtier, you had to be one of us.'

  Phaid let out a silent sigh of relief. This was the very last place he'd want people thinking that he wasn't one of them.

  'I guess it was either them or me.'

  'Ain't that what it's all about.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'Who was the dame, anyway?'

  Phaid was starting to feel a little stupid standing around with his stew in one hand and his beer in the other. He gestured with his plate.

  'Listen, I was just looking for a place to sit and . . . '

  The stranger had obviously decided that he was going to be Phaid's buddy. He once again took hold of Phaid's arm, spilling more stew down his coat, and steered him to an already crowded table near the door.

  Phaid couldn't see how two more people could possible get around the small table. It didn't seem to worry his companion who was already making loud introductions.

  'Hey, hey you guys. I want you to meet a friend of mine. I watched this man fold two cops in the space of a second. I got to tell you, he's an animal.'

  A few of the men hunched around the table glanced up. They didn't seem particularly impressed, but they did move up sufficiently to allow Phaid and the stranger to squeeze in. Once they were seated, a brawny, dark skinned man with a bandage around his head looked coldly at Phaid.

  'You're a mess.'

  'You could say that.'

  'You just come from the Plaza?'

  Phaid nodded.

  'Uh-huh.'

  'You get gassed?'

  'A little.'

  The dark skinned man sucked in his lower lip.

  'That's good. I wouldn't like to think you made a habit of throwing up over yourself. What happened down there?'

  Every eye around the table was suddenly focused on Phaid. He gathered himself together and launched into his account of the march and the subsequent massacre on the Plaza. It took a long time, but nobody interrupted him. When he was through, the dark skinned rebel pointed a questioning finger at him.

  'Seems to me that you're saying the Day Oners screwed things up.'

  Phaid realised that he might have said the wrong thing, but it was too late to change his story.

  'Yeah, it seemed like that to me. The cops weren't actually going to come over to our side, but they were definitely backing off from shooting down women. Then those crazy broads jumped them and all hell broke loose.'

  The dark skinned rebel swung around to a small bald man sitting next to him.

  'I told you that those people are insane. You didn't ought to be fucking with them.'

  The bald man had been staring glumly at the table. When he was spoken to, his expression didn't change.

  'We are all united in a common cause.'

  'Are we?'

  'The Day Oners want to overthrow the mad bitch just the same as we do.'

  'Maybe it ain't the same. It seems to me that they're kill happy. Once we've got rid of Chrystiana-Nex, how in hell are we to rebuild a society with people like that around?'

  The bald man seemed unmoved.

  'We'll face that when the time comes.'

  'Maybe we ought to face that right now.'

  The dark skinned man appealed to Phaid.

  'You tell him. You know what they're like.'

  Phaid was about to answer when the door swung open and a group of men walked in. To his shock and surprise he saw that one of them was Makartur. Memory of the strange dream charged all over him. There was no way that he could think of Makartur as anything but an implacable enemy. Phaid had an immediate urge to scrunch down in his chair so he wouldn't be noticed, but it was too late. Makartur spotted him and scowled.

  'What are you doing here, Manny? I didn't think revolution was your style.'

  Chapter 17

  'He’s shiftless, deceitful and self seeking. Believe me, I know the man. I travelled some distance with him. He'd
sell his own mother if he saw an advantage in doing so. Since he's been in this city, aye, even before he arrived, he was doing everything but crawl on his belly to curry favour with the toadies and lackeys of the court.'

  This was more than Phaid was going to stand for.

  'Just a minute now . . .'

  'The prisoner will speak in his allotted turn and not before.'

  Since the order was backed up by nearly a dozen blasters, Phaid shut his mouth and kept it shut. Makartur continued.

  'He has been seen more than once in the company of the notorious presidential flunkey Roni-Vows and, on the occasion of this much vaunted incident when he is reputed to have killed two of the enemy police, he was with a woman who can only be described as a high born whore.'

  Phaid felt sick to his stomach. Not only was he on trial for his life but the strange dream was coming uncannily true. Phaid had put all the old hill superstitions behind him when he had moved down to the cities. Now they flooded back with a sickening vengeance. What was the truth about the dream? Had Makartur sought the spiritual contact of his ancestors? Had Phaid's dream been forced on him by some supernatural power? Was one of them really destined to kill the other? Ghosts and demons closed in on Phaid, but they didn't offer any answers. He wanted to sink into a quivering jelly on the floor. He couldn't cope, but, then again, he had to cope. Makartur was far from finished.

  'I would advise this tribunal that the presence of this man in our midst can only indicate that he is a spy for the presidency. We cannot afford to take any risks with him. He should be branded as an enemy of the people and hung accordingly.'

  Phaid blinked. Every eye in the room was on him and he knew he'd have to come up with something good if life was going to last very much longer. The wallet of money that lay on the table in front of him, along with both his weapons, wasn't going to make the task any easier.

  Phaid took a last look around, trying to read the faces of the people who were about to judge him. It had to be the strangest tribunal that he had ever seen. There were eight of them that were directly involved in the business at hand. Makartur stood as Phaid's accuser. There was Phaid himself and Vord, the man who'd seen the incident with the police and served as Phaid's only friendly witness. There were five on the actual tribunal, a pair of hard bitten northsiders called Lank and Marden, a middle-aged woman called D'Wan, a small man with the attitude and movements of a street hustler who went by the nickname of Blue Eyes and a statuesque red-haired woman who called herself Flame. Phaid had heard a whisper that she had been an exotic dancer before the outbreak of the rebellion.