The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

  The conversation lasted for about fifteen minutes. It ended when the five guards emerged looking nastily pleased with themselves, and two prisoners were dele­gated to drag away what was left of the kid. Phaid felt sick to his stomach. He had no real reason to believe that the fate that was waiting for him would be any less painful.

  On the wall opposite Phaid, just below the point where the vertical pillars blossomed into the sweeping arches that supported the high vaulted roof, a kind of transpa­rent, plexiglass blister bulged out of the wall like an ulcer on the inside of the prison's gut. The room behind the blister was brightly lit and seemed to be used as some sort of observation gallery where those who were both autho­rised and interested could observe the inflow of new prisoners.

  The spectators seemed to be entirely made up of either priests, prison overseers or ranking police officers. From their gestures, it looked as though constant arguments were going on. Phaid had a sneaking suspicion that they were about which particular arm of the establishment had the rights to certain individual prisoners. If this was indeed the case, Phaid's paranoia prompted him to won­der if maybe he was the subject of one of these discus­sions. As he stared at the blister, he thought he spotted the elusive Dreen among a bunch of black robed priests. It was too far, though, to be absolutely certain whether it was the mysterious, furtive little man or not. There were an awful lot of priests who reminded Phaid of Dreen.

  All thoughts of Dreen, priests, or anything else beyond his own predicament were driven instantly from Phaid's mind as a pair of masked and rubber suited executioners strolled by quite close to where he sat. They were pulling off their gloves and chatting just like any two working men who had put in a hard but satisfying day. Phaid had imagined his death would be many things, but never just a part of someone's daily routine.

  The guard beside him quickly snapped to attention. An overseer and a man in civilian clothes were walking straight towards them, cutting through the grey lines of prisoners. The overseer pointed at Phaid.

  'That's the one.'

  'The one called Phaid?'

  'That's him.'

  The civilian nodded. He moved from side to side, as though inspecting Phaid's face from a number of angles. At first, Phaid thought that the man was a courtier but on closer examination Phaid saw that his clothes weren't quite court quality, and his hair was a little too long and unkempt.

  He leaned forward, looking very closely at the contours of Phaid's cheek. He almost seemed to be making measurements. A hundred dreadful possibilities flashed through Phaid's mind at lightning speed. Then the man straightened up.

  'Well, I suppose we might as well get on with it.'

  The overseer nodded curtly at the guard. The guard in his turn grabbed Phaid by his collar and hauled him upwards.

  'On your feet, sunshine. We're going with the nice gentlemen.'

  'Going where?'

  The guards cuffed Phaid sharply round the head.

  'Just keep your mouth shut and do what you're told.'

  Phaid had noticed that the guards became a lot more physical when there was an overseer watching. The civi­lian looked at the guard questioningly.

  'Is he dangerous?'

  The guard laughed.

  'Him? Lords no, not him. He's as good as gold, a regular pussy cat. Murdered a courtier, if I remember rightly.' He looked at Phaid. 'Ain't that right? Didn't you murder a courtier? Sexual or something, wasn't it?'

  Phaid was getting tired of all this.

  'I . . .'

  He was treated to another stinging cuff to the head.

  'Didn't we get told to keep our mouths shut?'

  The presence of the civilian made the guard doubly determined to show off. The civilian, however, was starting to look quite perturbed.

  'Do you really have to hit him quite so much? I mean, he isn't causing any trouble and we do sort of need his co-operation.'

  The guard looked at the civilian as if he verged on the feeble minded.

  'Hit him, sir? You have to hit them. It reminds them who's in charge. It also makes them feel wanted.'

  As far as he was concerned, that was the end of the matter. The civilian shook his head and sighed.

  'You'd better just follow me.'

  He let them out of the induction area and down a corridor. A rather beat-up hologram rig had been set up in what looked to Phaid like a medium-sized holding tank. The receptors had been positioned in a tight half-circle. They were hooked into the open chestplate of a battered and rather mournful looking android. A pair of boohooms squatted in the corner playing a game of match fingers. They were presumably the porters who had brought in the equipment from outside.

  Phaid had seen no other boohooms in the White Tower. In fact, when he thought about it, he realised that he had seen little of the good natured sub-humans since the trouble had started in Chrystianaville.

  The civilian rummaged in a pile of cases and boxes behind the receptors. He held out a purple, hoodlum style shirt to Phaid.

  'You'd better put this on. It wouldn't be plausible with you in prison uniform.'

  Phaid twisted his manacled hands round from behind his back.

  'I can't.'

  'No, I suppose you can't.'

  The civilian glanced at the guard.

  'Take those things off, will you?'

  'I can't do that.'

  'What do you mean, you can't do that?'

  'Not authorised.'

  'Of course it's authorised. We can't do the damned thing if he's wearing manacles.'

  'Nobody told me.'

  'I'm telling you.'

  'I'm not sure.'

  The civilian was starting to lose patience. The guard wavered.

  'Will you take responsibility?'

  'Yes, yes, I'll take responsibility, just get those things off him.'

  The guard finally snapped off the manacles. Phaid stood massaging his wrists. The civilian again held out the shirt, doing his best to look friendly and capable.

  'My name's Avar. You better put this on so we can get started.'

  Phaid took the shirt.

  'Do you mind if I ask just one question?'

  'Not at all.'

  'What the hell is going on?'

  'Don't ask me. I was told to get my equipment over to the White Tower and shoot holograms of a prisoner. Have you done something particularly hideous?'

  Phaid shrugged.

  'Who knows in this place.'

  Avar awkwardly tried to allay what he imagined were Phaid's fears.

  'It's probably some kind of propaganda thing.'

  'You didn't enquire?'

  'You don't enquire too much when it's a job at the White Tower. You get over there, shoot the shots and get out while you still can. You'll appreciate that nobody stays here longer than they have to.'

  Avar smiled as though he had made a joke. Phaid ignored him and pulled the shirt overhead, on top of his shapeless prison uniform.

  'Some of us don't have any choice.'

  Avar looked embarrassed.

  'Yeah, well, let's get on with it, shall we?'

  He pointed to a spot in the middle of the circle of receptors.

  'Just stand there, will you?'

  Phaid did as he was instructed. Avar turned to the android.

  'Are we all set?'

  ' As-set-as-we-are-ever-likely-to-get.'

  The android's voice was scratchy and muffled. It sound­ed depressed and unhealthy. Avar didn't appear to notice. 'Shall we go for a run through?'

  Phaid nodded. The android blinked a dull sensor. Pilot lights on the receptors flickered into life. Phaid stood there wondering what was going on. Avar shook his head.

  'You don't look very aggressive or dangerous.'

  'Am I supposed to be dangerous or aggressive?'

  'That's what I was told to get. You look more bewil­dered than anything.'

  'I don't feel particularly aggressive or dangerous. Those kind of emotions get frowned on around here.'
<
br />   'Couldn't you fake it?'

  Phaid experimentally bared his teeth.

  'How's that?'

  'Better. If you put a bit more intensity into it, and if you half turned while you do it, so we'd have a bit of motion, it'd be just about there.'

  They tried it a number of times with Avar encouraging Phaid to look as menacing as possible. Phaid felt a trifle ridiculous but anything that got him out of hall A7H for a while came as a welcome change.

  They tried the pose a total of fifteen times before Avar was finally satisfied with the result. For a moment, Phaid was quite pleased with his dramatic efforts, then he realised that doing it right meant that the interlude was over and he would have to go back to the hall. He also remembered that he'd been in such shock at coming face to face with Solchaim and being ordered out of the hall by the guards that he'd completely forgotten to do anything about his meagre prison kit. He'd left it just lying on the floor. His bed and everything else would have long since vanished. He didn't relish the idea of sleeping on the hard floor. On the other hand, he also didn't relish the idea of trading off some of the time he had left before the steamer in return for a few creature comforts.

  The android, helped by the boohooms, began packing away the equipment; Avar also busied himself. He seemed to be avoiding looking Phaid in the eye. The guard moved in and motioned Phaid to once again put his hands behind his back. Phaid obeyed without protest and the manacles were snapped back on to his wrists.

  'Okay, let's go.'

  They started back towards the induction area. As they walked, the guard kept looking at Phaid curiously.

  'So what's so good about you?'

  'Huh?'

  'What's so good about you? How come you get to have your picture taken?'

  Phaid lost all patience. He suddenly didn't care what the guard did to him.

  'You jealous or something?'

  Surprisingly, the blow that Phaid expected never came. The guard seemed preoccupied, thinking about something else. They walked in silence after Phaid's flash of de­fiance. Phaid started to wonder if maybe the guard did think that he was someone important and was letting him off easy in the hope of future favours.

  Once they'd crossed the induction area and started down the White Tower's seemingly endless labyrinth of corridors, Phaid began to get the feeling that they were returning to A7H by a different route. He couldn't be absolutely sure, all the corridors in the White Tower had such a uniform, drab bareness that one looked much like any other. They climbed a set of stairs. Phaid didn't remember any stairs between A7H and the induction area. He would have sworn that they were both on the same level. They climbed another set, and then a third. Phaid was now certain that they were headed for some destination other than A7H. The guard was still quiet, so Phaid decided to risk a question.

  'We're not going back to A7H are we?'

  'No.'

  'My gear's in A7H.'

  'That will have been stolen by now.'

  'So where are we going?'

  'You'll find out.'

  A horrible fear twisted in Phaid's gut.

  'We're not going . . .'

  'Going where?'

  'To the steamer?'

  The guard laughed. It was far from being a pretty laugh.

  'You didn't get that lucky.'

  Something in the guard's eyes warned Phaid that he'd used up all the chances that he would get. It would have been a mistake to ask any more questions. They kept on climbing. Phaid began to wonder if they were going all the way to the top of the Tower.

  As they reached the higher levels, the stairwells and corridors started to change. They seemed less used, more neglected. The paint was peeling and dirt had spent a long time accumulating in the corners. A dead, abandoned, musty smell hung in the air. Many of the glo-bars set in the arched roofs of the corridors had burnt out and never been replaced. The hostile glare of the lower levels gave way to the gloom of disuse and decay. These upper levels had the air of places where men or things could be brought, left and forgotten. These ideas did nothing to allay Phaid's apprehension.

  He and the guard kept climbing for what seemed like hours. The corridors through which they passed became dirtier and even more gloomy. They gave the illusion of being narrower, that they twisted and turned more. Phaid wasn't sure whether this was really the case. It could have been a trick of the malfunctioning light. Trick or not, though, it didn't stop the feeling that he was being taken to the highest, most forsaken regions of the prison, regions where his soul and even his life might be deliber­ately lost.

  They passed along a shadowy corridor lined with bat­tered steel doors. Tiny inspection windows allowed brief glimpses of the dark cells beyond. Phaid assumed that the place had to be some long disused punishment or solitary confinement block. Then, without warning, a pale arm lunged from one of the little windows, fingers grasped at the air just inches from Phaid's head.

  'Speak to me! For Lords' sake, speak to me!'

  The voice had a rasp to it, almost as though it hadn't been used for a very long time. The fingers went on clawing and clutching at the air.

  'Please! I've been alone here for so long. Please stop and talk to me.'

  The guard grabbed hold of the arm and jerked it hard downwards. There was an unpleasant crack and a loud scream. Then he pushed Phaid down the corridor.

  'We don't have to bother about scum like that.'

  Phaid stumbled on. He was on the edge of dropping into blind panic. He could still hear a low whimpering coming from back down the corridor. Was he going to be left to rot in isolation like the scarcely human thing in its lonely cell? It seemed to be an even more horrible fate than the steamer. Madness was stalking at the edge of his mind. He had always done his best to bend with whatever circumstances presented themselves, but the White Tower was throwing so much at him that he feared, this time, he was going to break.

  Almost blindly, he climbed yet another flight of steps.

  At the top was a short, narrow passage. There was a single door at the end. It was protected by a jolt field and an elaborate touch tone lock. It looked like the White Tower wanted to take very good care of whatever was behind the door.

  The guard shut down the jolt field and thumbed out the open sequence on the lock. The door swung back with a querulous metallic squeal. The room beyond the door was in near darkness. A single dim orange glo-bar was all that Phaid could see. The guard snapped off Phaid's handcuffs and thrust him roughly inside.

  'Enjoy your stay.'

  Phaid stumbled over the threshold of his new prison. The door slammed behind him. It was a hollow sound. The faint crackle of the jolt field returning provided a final punctuation. He stood blinking, trying to make out some shapes in the gloom. His heart almost stopped when a voice came out of the darkness.

  'So they've given me some company after all this time.'

  Chapter 22

  'You have to remember that when she started she was everybody's sweetheart. A great many of those who are trying to pull her down today were dancing in the streets when the old man died. They thought that Chrystiana-Nex was their saviour. After all, she was one of them, she'd come up the hard way, through the bars and gin joints and cabarets. They knew that she'd sold herself a thousand times before she got her hands on the old president and made herself his mistress, then his consort and finally a full partner as co-ruler of the Republic. They knew that when he became mad, bloodthirsty and brutal, she was the one who organised the plot against him, that she was there when he was killed. Nobody denied that she was the one who should take power.'

  'But aren't you bitter?'

  'Bitter? Of course I'm bitter. I've been locked up in this room for two and a half years now, with only the company of an elderly guard when he delivers my ration pack.'

  'You have me now.'

  The old man sighed.

  'That's right. I have you now. I can't begin to guess at their purpose in putting you in here with me.'

  He st
roked his whispy goatee and regarded Phaid thoughtfully. He was stooped and frail. His white hair was receding from his high domed forehead and his skin had a sick, unhealthy transparency. Phaid couldn't be sure if his newfound companion was really ancient or if he had been worn down and prematurely aged by his long and lonely incarceration.

  He claimed that his name was Vist-Roxon and that he'd been chief advisor to Chrystiana-Nex before the coming of Solchaim. This also might be a product of his imprison­ment, a fantasy concocted and made real by the long months locked up on his own, but Phaid was inclined to believe him. The unique nature of his solitary confine­ment marked him as something different from the ordin­ary prisoners. It was all too plausible that Chrystiana-Nex should condemn a favourite who had fallen from grace to such a cruel, living death.

  'I don't see how you can talk so charitably about the woman after what she's done to you. She's a monster. You should have seen the slaughter on the Plaza after she set the Palace Guard on the women's march.'

  'It's not a matter of charity. I remember her as she used to be. She was always ruthless, but there was a quality about her - sex appeal, charisma, call it what you will, back in the old days there was no way that you could help but be drawn to her.'

  'You sound as though you were in love with her.'

  'Maybe I was. I think, back at the beginning, we were all in love with her. Perhaps that was the secret of her power. I've been mind probed so often in this place that it's hard for me to remember now what's real and what isn't. I do know that it was all very different before that devil came along.'

  'Solchaim?'

  'I can't bring myself to speak his name. He is the real monster.'

  'You know that he was here in the prison?'

  'That's unusual. He almost never comes to this place. Did you hear what he wanted?'

  'He was apparently looking for me.'

  'I would think that you are lucky to be still alive. What did he want with you?'