Chevalier & Gawayn

by Phillip Mann

Genres: Action & Adventure; Science Fiction; Dystopian

Synopsis

The earth has been ruined; plague is rife and people huddle behind city walls, underground or in remote villages. There are no animals, no birds - and no freedom. And the divide between rich and poor is growing ever greater.

Into this world comes Chevalier, an unassuming tax inspector by day but a secret law-breaker and risk-taker by night who decides to experiment with a new virtual reality headset - CIRCE. Suddenly, Chevalier finds he can dip in and out of a world long ago and far away where his deepest hopes and fears are met, where there's magic in the air, and where his spirit and bravery can emerge.

With a collection of gods, goddesses, heroes and heroines both ancient and modern, Chevalier takes on the spirit of the legendary Gawayn; only as Gawayn in the virtual world can he save the devastated real world.

Release date: June 26, 2025

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 480

Sample

He saw himself as riding a big white horse.

This was not a pretty horse, not a dainty stallion that printed its hooves on the grass and whinnied for battle, nostrils flared, eyes half-mad, mane flowing like a girl’s hair in the wind…

No, this horse had a big behind, the colour of dirty snow, and a cropped tail so its turds fell free. It could piss like a fountain, and better be up-wind when it had eaten oats. The hooves were heavy and tufted and struck the ground with a solid clop, spattering mud. The flanks were hard with muscle and scarred from battle and encounters with carts on narrow lanes. The mane, the colour of old ivory, was stiff like bristle, and it ran down the crest of the wide neck. The ears, dappled, high and pointed. The eyes alert… intelligent.

Strapped to its forehead was a spike fashioned from the tip of an old spear, its blade sharpened to cut, or to stab with a quick toss of the head.

This was a horse for all occasions: for kicking down a shed door or butting an enemy aside. It was a horse to shelter behind when the wind blew white and chill over a bleak moor, a horse that could pick its way across a full stream or drag a cart through the mire.

Both horse and rider were tired, for the day had been long and had seen much action. The man was aware of a steady pain in his right arm where a blood-soaked rag, torn from the tunic of one of his attackers and tied in place roughly by teeth and hand, covered a sword wound. It had been a glancing blow, more of an accident really than a killing thrust, for the attacker was already pitching forwards, eyes glazing, when his sword by chance came up and sliced the arm of the man who had killed him.

The horse too had been in the fight. The spike it wore showed dried blood and would need to be scrubbed, honed and polished to regain its lustre.

Horse and rider were one, a single beast as they ambled along, making their way down a darkening moorland path towards a village where smoke rose from chimneys and candles gleamed in the windows. There they would find comfort – hay and beer, a comfortable stable, clean water to wash in – and a loving companion in bed for the night.

At the horse’s side were twin panniers. They contained the booty of the day – two strange heads.

For a moment the rider stood up in the stirrups to ease his back while the horse, head down, stopped and began to snuffle for grass. But in that moment, the world in front and about him swirled, as though it had only existed as a reflection in water, and that water had been stirred. The village disappeared. The moors too, and even the mighty horse that had seemed so real that you could smell it… all vanished.

Blackness.

And then a voice booming in the rider’s head, saying, “Stand stiff, Sir. Legs spread.”

The shock of the awakening was great. For a few moments the man hung in his safety harness, swaying slightly like a punch-bag recently struck. Then he shook his head, confused between dream and reality, for he could still hear the keen wind moaning in the hollows of the moor, and smell the ripeness of the horse, and feel the pain in his arm jabbing with the movements of the horse’s broad back under him. But any vestiges of his dream ended when he felt a sharp jerking which shook him from side to side as the safety harness was released. He felt himself lowered until his toes touched and dragged on the ground.

Again the voice, booming in his head, nerve-fraying, not to be disobeyed. “Repeat. Stand stiff, Sir. Legs spread.” With an effort he obeyed. He breathed deeply. He willed his legs to straighten. He spread them as wide as his day-suit would allow. Immediately, he felt a sharp pressure on his ankles as a hobble-bar was locked in place.

The shocking moment when his helmask was finally disabled was felt in his jaw and in his teeth. He experienced a moment of dizziness, a wave of nausea, and tasted rather than saw a spatter of red sparks deep in his mind. Such neural confusion frequently accompanied any sudden interruptus of the CIRCE dreams. He felt the electrodes detach with a slight pulling from his scalp. With a rush he knew who he was, and where he was.

His own voice spoke softly in his mind, repeating the words he had drilled into himself by deep suggestion: I am John Chevalier, Taxfriend, going about my lawful business. Nothing to hide. Honest, hard-working, thrifty John – loyal as the day is long, travelling on the Glideway to attend an important meeting at the Palace of Animals. The conventions of my occupation forbid me from revealing…

Mostly half-truths, of course. The name Chevalier, was true – at least for this assignment – though he could, had he so wished, have concocted a number of different names and biographies, all plausible, all sanctioned by the Department of Finance, Heritage, and Taxation (DoF-HAT) for whom he worked, and all with just enough salt to make them palatable to any other authorities that might question him.

Chevalier paused in his mental litany and ran his tongue around his lips, tasting blood. At this he smiled. What a dream I am into, he thought. What a dream of horses and fighting and danger and…

“Health inspection. Have your day-card ready, Sir.” The voice boomed in his head again and he waved to indicate that the sound was too loud.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, twisting around in his day-suit and trying to see out through the visa of his helmask. “Has there been another accident? I’ll be happy to oblige, of course, but may I release first? My arms are starting to numb and the volume is…”

“Release.” The voice was not perceptively softer, but nor it did not seem especially hostile. Zealous, possibly.

Chevalier was beginning to ache. The harness straps that held him were designed to keep the day-suit comfortably suspended while a dreamer was in transit. But when the dreamer was awake and lowered to the ground, the straps, unless immediately released, unavoidably tipped the upper part of the body forward, while holding the hips back. Normally a passenger stepped forward and released the harness as soon as his feet touched ground, but the hobble-bar had prevented Chevalier from doing this.

Thus, intentional or not, the position in which he was now held – head down and bottom up – was degrading and reminded Chevalier of the trussed-up whores in the Fantasy Fairground veevas he had experimented with when he was an adolescent. The position made him feel vulnerable, just as the whores, of whatever sex, had been vulnerable. And, if he was aware of this, so were the Healthfriends who now held him hobbled – and that knowledge did strange things in his mind. Of all things, an awareness that he was under the control of other human beings disturbed Chevalier’s very nature. It brought out the worst in him, and Chevalier could be very bad if the need arose… very bad. Moreover, he had just completed a course with the grand title Advanced Interrogation and Inspection Techniques and was thus, in a way, primed for action.

Moving slowly, for Chevalier knew that Healthfriends were suspicious of any quick movement, he reached down between his legs and carefully released the catch on the harness. The mechanism eased and opened. Chevalier took his weight on his gloved hands placed flat on the floor. Behind him the harness swung free and lifted to its storage position in the roof where the straps drew in like the long legs of a spider when it is frightened or dying.

Chevalier was able to stand upright, but as he did so, he tottered slightly and reached for support. Instantly he saw the Healthfriends come to full alert, watching him closely. Such wandering movements might, in their eyes, indicate the onset of a seizure, or be the prelude to a crazy, kamikaze lunge. So Chevalier took his time, methodically clenching and releasing his fists within his smooth gloves and flexing his shoulders within his day-suit to ease the cramp. Finally, he unclipped the government-sponsored communications channel – or G-string as it was popularly called – from his helmask and let it snap back into the wall. “That’s better,” said Chevalier. “Now, how can I help you?”

All travellers had to be connected to the G-string while in transit for reasons of safety and security. The G-string operated on a twenty-four-hour schedule, pouring out programmes dealing with Weather, Sport, Adventure, Edutainment, News and Gardening – this latter being a programme for children on how to make paper flowers. If some crisis should occur while a passenger was in transit, the G-string would override his veeva of choice, wake him up and give directions.

For most travellers, the G-string was the channel of last resort. Most, like Chevalier, preferred the private Joyboy or Gogirl programmes, for these could provide more spicy fantasies tailored to their wearer’s needs. It was a programme of this kind, but using a new technology called CIRCE, which had given Chevalier his deep dream of wild moorland, aching wound and plodding horse. This was the first time he had used CIRCE and, as with all new technology, it was taking time for him to adjust to its novelty. In any case, Chevalier distrusted the government-sponsored channel for he knew it contained special neuro-circuits that could be used for restraint. An individual user could be isolated and immobilised. This was not generally known, but Chevalier, because he had made it his business to know about such things, had found out and had modified his helmask so that certain wavelengths of the government channel were blocked. Ordinary messages could get through, but not the dark, mind-snuffing images that could close a man down as though a light had been switched off inside him.

Sensing his change of state, the micro-computer that managed the well-being of Chevalier’s day-suit decided to assert itself. It set the filters to maximum. Immediately, a micro-pump located on the outside of his suit and between his shoulder blades began to throb as it evacuated and filtered the stale, damp air from within the day-suit. The urine trap opened, warm and mildly erotic. A small electrical charge lifted the hairs on his body, and the semi-permeable membrane that lined the inside of his suit began a gentle peristalsis that, apart from providing a massage, assisted any moisture to pass away. The day-suit warmed and dried inside. He felt it tighten and brace him, making him feel strong and alert. The plastic visor, misty as a result of his exertions during dream-time, slowly cleared.

Revealed, staring out, smiling but questioning, was the unremarkable face of John Chevalier. Unremarkable, except perhaps for the eyes, which were merry and green.

Revealed too was a smear of blood, red on his lips and cheek.

Through the plastic of his visor, Chevalier saw three Healthfriends facing him. They were unmistakable in the bright green and yellow striped coveralls of the Department of Public Hygiene (DPH), complete with the bulky isolation packs which gave them an ability to survive in toxic and disease-ridden environments. The head of each of the Healthfriends was completely encased in a shiny black helmask. These prohibited any view of the occupant’s face, reflecting Chevalier’s own image, distorted and insect-like, back at him.

Chevalier, like all citizens, had undergone many health checks. He knew that when dealing with the Healthfriends it was best to adopt an upbeat manner. A bit of cheerful aggression put them at their ease. A sullen, depressed manner or dark moodiness could, in their eyes, be a symptom of something far more serious. Healthfriends spent most of their working lives trapped in their green and yellow striped coveralls cleaning up people’s messes. They needed light relief now and then, which Chevalier was happy to provide. He knew they liked a bit of mongrel in their dealings, and so he decided to push them a bit harder. “So what’s happened this time?” he asked. “Another epidemic? Another cock-up? You guys not doing your job properly?” He was referring to the recent outbreak of a disease called Torpor.

There was no immediate reply and Chevalier wondered if perhaps he had misjudged. Perhaps this was a team at the end of their shift with no time for small talk, or perhaps they’d been arguing among themselves, in which case he’d better watch out for the Healthfriends could be as mean as the Wayfriends if they so chose. He decided to give it one more try. “Hey, is there anyone out there? Or have you all got Torpor?”

He was pleased when he heard a suppressed chuckle. This was followed by an order given in the code language peculiar to the Healthfriends. Immediately, the one who had attached the hobble-bar to his feet – a giant of a figure by any standards and undoubtedly the muscle part of the team – manoeuvred a portable diagnostic scanner and set it up in front of him. For the first time Chevalier could see the name stencilled on the Healthfriend’s coverall. DORIS… or perhaps BORIS, for some wit had added a dividing stroke in the D. It seemed appropriate.

“Hello Doris or Boris. Which do you prefer?”

“You’ll call me Doris, if you know what’s good for you,” muttered a deep voice.

As soon as the scanner was in place, the smallest member of the team – whose name Chevalier noticed was Rocky – picked up a pair of diagnostic probes and held them ready in case he should prove uncooperative. This was more worrying. Chevalier had never been challenged in this way before. In fact, quite a number of things were different from the normal procedure. Why were there three Healthfriends? Normally only one was required for a standard day-check. Why had they stopped the Way-train between stations? Were they looking for someone special?

Of course… day-checks had become more common since the warmer days of summer… he knew that. Perhaps something really nasty had erupted in the foetid depths of the City, and they feared an epidemic was about to engulf them. Perhaps they were just out on a training mission – that too was possible. This little Healthfriend called Rocky, who was holding the probes like a gunfighter from one of the old-time cowboy veevas, seemed new to the game. And besides, this was a Healthfriend team… If it had been Rapid Action Mobile team (RAM for short) there would have been no niceties like “Stand stiff, Sir”. No, he’d have been dragged out of the Way-train feet first and with his helmask wires dangling. No. This was okay. No cause for alarm… yet. All his records were in order. He was clean. Even so… He breathed deeply and willed himself to be calm. The voice in his mind whispered privately, I am John Chevalier, Taxfriend, going about my lawful…

“This is all a bit theatrical, isn’t it?” said Chevalier, gesturing at the probes. “And you be careful with those things, Rocky. I don’t want you blowing the circuits of my suit. This helmask is brand new and cost a packet. In fact, I’d feel happier if you put the stupid things away. You’ve got me hobbled, what more do you want?”

Chevalier saw the effect of his words. Doris drew herself up to her full height, ready to step in if needed. Rocky hesitated and then lowered the probes and looked around to the third Healthfriend for instructions. So now Chevalier knew who was in charge. He noticed the name on the third Healthfriend’s coverall – it was Maria.

Again he heard instructions in the code language, and immediately Rocky deactivated the probes and stored them in their clips on the side of the diagnostic unit. “That’s better,” continued Chevalier. “Well Sister Maria, what’s going on? Is this for real or are you just training young Rocky here?”

There was quite a long pause and Chevalier was just about to speak again when he received his reply. “You make a lot of noise for a little man.” It was the voice that had first awoken him, now identified as the voice of Maria, still distorted, but thoughtful too, deep and slightly mocking. “The day-check is for real, as you say. We are attempting to stem the transmission of a very real disease. Many people have suffered as a result of some careless male travellers – one such as yourself, perhaps – deciding to unzip his sani-pak while in transit. Or even to deposit a used sani-pak in a public space such as a Way-train. Simply be glad that we are as vigilant as we are, for that gives you your security, Sir.”

Chevalier heeded the warning signs conveyed in this little speech, and modified his reply accordingly. “I am grateful for your vigilance, Healthfriend Maria. And I am sorry if my jest gave offence. It was a slight comment, of no significance.”

“Apology accepted.”

But Chevalier, being the man he was, could not let the matter rest. “May I ask how you know it is men who transmit the disease? Sani-paks, as far as I know, are unisex. Is that not true?”

“Yes, they are unisex. But women tend not to produce male semen. And flies breed on such secretions. Some flies bite, all flies defecate. That is one of the ways in which disease is spread. And remember, children are curious…” Maria paused, and then continued, her tone still slightly mocking. “Perhaps you are unaware, Sir, but a virus can pass through the gut of a fly. Such carelessness constitutes an act of medical terrorism: knowingly or thoughtlessly performed. Hence our vigilance. Do you have anything more to ask?”

Chevalier chose discretion. “No.”

“Good. Now, to get back to the matter in hand. We are sorry to pull you from your dreams, Sir. This is a comprehensive health scan day-check. Please present your day-card.”

Chevalier fumbled at his shoulder for his day-card. It was attached to a plastic cord that stretched.

“Thank you, Sir,” said Rocky, leaning forward and taking the day-card in a gloved hand. Then he placed it in the scanner that immediately began to mutter and chuckle to itself.

“We trust you are having a pleasant journey.” It was Maria speaking again.

“Enjoyable as such things go. Unfortunately. I am on my way to an important meeting. Will this inspection take…”

“Were you enjoying one of the string channels or a private Joyboy?”

“Private.”

Maria leant forward and inspected Chevalier’s helmask. “Ah. I see you have one of the new self-referencing units. CIRCE. Isn’t that what they are called?”

“Yes.”

“I understand the quality is greatly improved, graphically speaking, and with full senso-dominant neural tabs.”

“It is. It has.”

“Very nice. I am tempted to experience CIRCE myself some time. When I get a day off and the moon is green cheese. But that might explain your…” The voice hesitated as though at a loss for the exact word.

“Might explain my what?”

“Tardiness in waking up. Your obviously deep state of excitement. And the blood on your face.”

“I think I bit my lip, that is all.”

“Really?”

“I am a careful man, Healthfriend Maria. And, believe me, the CIRCE experience is very real.”

“It sounds exciting.”

“But I am still very new to it. To its… realism.”

“Have you been on a quest?”

“Quest?”

“Isn’t that what CIRCE does?”

“I don’t know. I do travel a lot, if that is what you mean. My work requires it, as you will see when your scanner has finally gone through its paces.”

“So, if you are such a careful man, and even though you travel a lot, what made you experiment with something so new, and perhaps dangerous? Or do you just like adventures?”

Chevalier wondered where these questions were leading… at the same time, he was aware that Healthfriend Maria seemed genuinely interested… or was she just professionally fishing. Hard to tell. “I bought the CIRCE on a whim, as a reward to myself,” he said. “And yes, for what it is worth, I do like the adventures my work provides. But more than that, I cannot say.”

“Of course. The convention of your employment, and all that twaddle. An expensive whim, all the same.”

Uncertain where all this was leading, Chevalier decided to change the topic. “Your machine seems to be taking its time. I think CIRCE is more efficient.”

As though in response, the scanner beeped and then ejected the day-card. Doris reached out and pushed the day-card back into its slot. Then she gave the machine a gentle thump with her fist. It began to recycle through its programme again.

“Is there a problem?” asked Chevalier.

He heard Maria sigh. “Well, not a problem really. The machine does this from time to time. Our technology does leave something to be desired. It is getting old, like all of us, and is overworked, like some of us. I hope you are not in too much of a hurry, Sir. This will take a few moments longer.”

“I can wait. Could you un-hobble my legs?”

“No.” The silence inside his head was suddenly more complete and Chevalier knew he had been disconnected.

Chevalier glanced down the brightly lit tunnel of the Way-train. It had come to a standstill at one of the maintenance platforms between stations. He could see where other teams of Healthfriends were working their way from passenger to passenger, lowering them, hobbling them and interviewing them. It was obviously a very thorough check. Those passengers who were being examined stood stiff and straight like Chevalier himself. Those who had not yet been woken up for examination still hung in their transit harnesses, like creatures in cocoons, each lost in dreams of love and war, power and glory or perhaps simply sleeping. Some hung, still and passive, and they were more like giant bats with folded wings; others turned back and forth, slowly and gracefully as in a dance, while one or two kicked as they battled monsters or enjoyed some sporting triumph.

Set to one side and hanging close together, their red and yellow striped suits linked at the neck by a woven steel cord, were some prisoners. They did not move but hung, like sides of meat on a butcher’s hook. Whether they were in transit or were simply parked there, or dead even, Chevalier could not tell. If alive they would no doubt be enduring their sentence in their minds. Each of their helmasks would be attached to the government’s Justice and Correction channel and this would be filling their minds with terrible dreams to which their numbed bodies could not respond… not even to scream.

Chevalier remembered how once, as part of his training, shortly after he had joined Tax Web Central, he had been allowed to experience one of the correction programmes. He was placed in a comfortable viewing chair while the lecturer from the Correction Unit fitted a helmask snugly to his head. As soon as it was switched on, his mind darkened. And when it brightened again, he found himself lying naked on a bed and bound with straps. For a few moments he was able to hold the two realities separate: himself attending a lecture/seminar, and a new self who now lay flat on his back, secured for correction. But it was impossible to sustain the separation. He found himself slipping deeply into the reality of the dream and he felt the straps tight around his arms. He stared up. Above him was a mirror. After some moments, a doctor – or at least someone in a white coverall – entered the room and, without speaking, prepared an injection which was then administered into Chevalier’s arm. The pin-prick was sharp, and when the needle was withdrawn, it was followed by a small dribble of blood. The wound was quickly covered by a plaster. Within moments, Chevalier could feel the first effects of the injection. It was as though his blood was warming and he became aware of each pulse in his arm, neck and legs throbbing. Then his vision blurred. The next time he was able to see clearly, the mirror had been lowered. He could see that his face was changing, darkening rapidly as though bruised. Small sores had opened in the creases in his skin and his skin was flaccid and unhealthy. He wanted to reach up and scratch, but that was impossible. Then there was a voice, cold and judgemental, telling him that over the next few hours he would experience his own slow death from Neural Panic Syndrome (NPS) for which, once begun, there was no reverse process.

Chevalier was brought out of the dream moments later. The lecturer helped him sit up, dazed and shaking, and removed the helmask. Calmly, the lecturer explained that had the dream been allowed to continue, Chevalier would have become excruciatingly aware of every stage of the ‘correction’ as it developed and every movement as his body bled, until finally he was haemorrhaging from every orifice. He had asked, “And what would the person have done to have earned this treatment?”

“Illicit physical contact leading to the transmission of bodily fluids.”

“Kissing?” asked Chevalier.

The lecturer looked at him sharply. “That,” she said, “and worse.”

The scanner aboard the Way-train completed its work, announcing its success with a small melody of chimes. Doris gave a thumbs-up and then turned the screen so that Chevalier could see. Data began to appear.

The Healthfriends studied the screen for a few moments, absorbing the information.

“I thought you’d be older than that,” said Maria.

“Why?”

“Just your manner. A bit more a man of the world.”

“You don’t have to be old to be a man of the world.”

“Perhaps. I wouldn’t know.”

The image dissolved and the next screen emerged.

Chevalier saw their reaction when they read his occupation: Taxfriend, Investigations Unit.

Taxfriends were not liked. Universally they were feared. Taxfriends could probe into all matters secretly – and who does not have something to hide? Moreover, Chevalier’s profession always put other public officials in a dilemma. On the one hand they wanted to co-operate, to be seen to be doing an efficient, professional and fair job, in the full knowledge that everyone and everything could be audited if a Taxfriend so chose. At the same time, being human, they could not resist the thrill of having one whom they feared in their power. Chevalier knew that if they found one slip-up in his records, they would pounce with official thoroughness and human zeal. They would subject him to a rigorous and intimate examination. It was for this reason that Chevalier was always careful to make sure his records lacked any error or discrepancy. He was clean in every way, or so it seemed. At the same time, the Healthfriends would be careful not to transgress because Taxfriends could be dangerous enemies.

Doris pointed at the F3 travel visa and the others nodded. Chevalier’s F3 visa gave him the opportunity to travel worldwide, over land and sea. Such travel in this time of desolation, disease and overcrowding, when so many parts of the world were uninhabitable, was a rare privilege – and not without its dangers. Such a visa was always a cause of envy. None of the Healthfriends now standing in front of Chevalier would ever have travelled beyond the City, except in their Joyboy or Gogirl dreams. Nor could they have any real expectation of ever doing so, unless they took the path of escape and that was dangerous for few returned.

Ignorance of the wider world fed their fantasies, and fantasies could be easily satisfied. They would all have experienced the adventure veevas put out by the government’s Lyceum for Education and Entertainment (GLEE) available on the G-string. They would thus have entered the world of Mountain Madness, where for a time they could tramp through the high Sierras and believe they were breathing in pine-scented air without the filters of a helmask. Or perhaps, as part of the Fabulous Pacific series, they had lazed on white sand beside a pale blue lagoon and beneath a sun that was more than a pale silver disk seen briefly between high buildings. The more adventurous would have swum among sharks and stingrays or trekked behind huskies across the wide white waste of Antarctica or turned at the end of a security line near an antique space platform and gazed with wonder at the stars. But at dream’s end there were always a few hours of euphoria, followed by emptiness and hunger as the real world reclaimed them. And, of course, there had been attempted revolutions from time to time, but these were easily snuffed out by an efficient network of informers and the Wayfriends. Poverty versus power. It is hardly a fair contest, is it? And Chevalier knew those feelings. It was a hunger for adventure, as well as the power, the perks, the prospects and the pension that had led him to his profession.

The Healthfriends glanced at one another, and then Maria reached forwards and touched the medical history section of the screen. Immediately, new data began to build giving a health profile of John Chevalier’s life from the moment of birth up to the morning of this very day. The machine began to scroll through quickly checking for any anomalies. They were trawling: searching on the off-chance that something had been missed.

Apart from some standard ailments common to most children, Chevalier’s health record was very good. Noted was a minor deformity of his inner ear and a tendency to high blood pressure, but these were not considered a significant problem – yet. Listed also were a broken finger that occurred when he was seven, mild concussion from the time he fell down stairs when he was thirteen, and a persistent bronchial infection which had not properly cleared up until he was nineteen. But from the age of twenty-one, the date at which he began to work at Tax Web Central, his health record was exemplary. The Healthfriends did not see that as unusual since members of DoF-HAT had