The Demi-Monde: 85th Day of Winter, 1004
I am moved to protest the alarmingly dilatory progress the SS has made in subjugating the Warsaw Ghetto. As you will be aware, the Case Red aspect of Operation Barbarossa may not be commenced until Case White has been completed, Warsaw pacified and our rear is secured. As Case Red necessitates the manoeuvring of the ForthRight army through the Hub the attack MUST be initiated not later than the 1st day of Spring if the army’s advance is to be completed before ThawsDay, the 60th day of Spring. After ThawsDay the Hub nanoBites wake from hibernation and anything penetrating more than six inches below the surface of the HubLand will be immediately devoured. This, of course, makes it impossible for men and materiel to advance or manoeuvre in the Hub. Be in no doubt, Comrade Colonel, that the inability of your SS to subdue the Ghetto could lead to the failure of Operation Barbarossa.
– letter written by General Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev to SS Colonel Archie Clement, dated 80th day of Winter 1004
They emerged from the manhole at the edge of the square just as the sun was setting. Once she was certain that the coast was clear, Trixie Dashwood hustled her troops into position, the soldiers hunkering down behind the walls of a burnt-out building whilst she surveyed the Bank through her battered telescope.
Ella kept as far away from the girl as was physically possible. She had seen the way the girl looked at her and there had been real hate in her eyes. The best thing she could do, Ella had decided, was to keep maximum real estate between the two of them until Trixie had cooled down. The way Ella saw it, the quicker she was out of the Ghetto the better.
There was a nudge from Vanka, who handed her his telescope. ‘Tell me what you think, Ella.’
She brought the telescope up to her eye. The Warsaw Blood Bank was as large and imposing as the one in Berlin and had been built from the same invulnerable Mantle-ite. Despite the carnage and the destruction that surrounded it, the Bank stood undamaged and inviolate in the centre of the square, shimmering green in the sunlight. From what she could see the only notable difference between this Bank and the one in Berlin was that the Varsovians, for whatever reason, had built a stone extension onto its front, and it was here that the SS garrison was gathered.
Vanka explained. ‘So many people visit the Banks that some of the Districts have built Commercial Centres that abut onto them. Firms of lawyers and accountants lease office space in them and there are restaurants and restrooms, all the things the Banks lack.’
‘Is that why the SS guard is concentrated there?’
‘Correct. And of course, as the only way into and out of a Bank is through the Centre that makes it an ideal bunker from which to defend the place. Let’s see how many of those SS bastards there are waiting for us.’
Vanka took the telescope back and spent a good five minutes counting the SS soldiers.
‘I make it fifty of them,’ he announced finally. ‘So with the ones inside eating and resting, I guess there’re around seventy-five of the buggers. But I don’t see any artillery, so that’s a blessing.’
‘Only seventy-five?’ queried Ella.
‘I’m not surprised. Clement is concentrating his men along a line that surrounds the Industrial Zone, ready to make his final assault. The problem here though isn’t the size of the garrison; it’s the hundred yards of open square between us and the Bank’s entrance. It’s a killing ground. All I think we can do is run for it and hope we catch the SS napping.’
Ella was less than impressed. ‘You must be joking. Anyone trying that will be cut down in an instant.’
‘Then let’s hope our lunatic Captain can think of a better idea.’
Fortunately she could. Even as Vanka asked the question Trixie Dashwood shouted orders to her second-in-command, Lieutenant Michalski. ‘Have the men spread out and search for a roadworthy steamer. Once they’ve found that, we need sheets of steel capable of resisting M4 fire bolted and chained to its sides. We’re going to make our own armoured steamer.’
It was the first battle that Ella had ever found herself fighting in and the word that best described the experience was ‘terrifying’. Stepping out from the wall she was cowering behind was to enter a cauldron of flying bullets, explosions and screams of the wounded.
For the first forty yards of the advance on the Bank their improvised armoured steamer worked perfectly. Protected by the huge steel sheet chained to its front, the WFA fighters walked slowly and steadily across the square while the SS poured hundreds of rounds of rifle fire quite ineffectually in their direction. The noise of the bullets smacking into the steel was horrendous but Ella consoled herself that it was better to be deafened than to be dead.
By the time they had covered fifty yards it was apparent that whoever was commanding the SS had come to the belated real-isation that they were wasting their time and that they needed something with a bit more grunt to stop the steamer. And it turned out that Vanka had been wrong: the defenders did have artillery. Thankfully the first shot from the six-pounder was wild, whistling six or seven feet above the steamer, the only effect of the near miss being to galvanise the steamer’s driver to urge more speed out of the vehicle. Unfortunately he wasn’t quick enough: just five yards from the Bank the steamer was hit amidships by the field gun.
As the steamer’s boiler exploded in a fury of scalding steam, the WFA fighters made their final, desperate assault on the Bank. It was mayhem, a jump-cut sequence of death and carnage. For an instant it seemed as though the attack would be repulsed; the SS, knowing that if the WFA fighters got inside the Bank they were dead men, fought with ferocious bravery born of desperation. The two sides were reduced to blasting each other from a distance of a few feet.
It was then that Sergeant Wysochi charged forward and blew open the Commercial Centre’s front door with a shotgun. Now the WFA fighters were able to fight their way into the Bank and the killing could begin in earnest.
The melee that ensued was confused and murderous. Not that Ella saw too much of it, Vanka having pulled her back down behind the smouldering remains of the steamer, shouting that she was too important to risk in a firefight. Gradually the superior numbers of the WFA and their sheer bloody-mindedness told. They were in.
‘Barricade the doors and windows!’ screamed Trixie as she hurdled the debris and the bodies that littered the Bank’s entrance. ‘They’ll be on us soon.’
Ella felt Vanka’s hand on her head. ‘Keep that lovely head of yours down, Ella, the SS will be doing their damnedest to shoot it off in a moment.’
It was timely advice. No sooner had she stooped down below the level of the windows along the front of the Commercial Centre than there was a fusillade of automatic fire and the ceiling and back wall behind her exploded, showering plaster and glass everywhere.
‘Fire, you bastards!’ she heard Trixie command. ‘Make them keep their distance!’ She stabbed a finger towards Ella. ‘And you, Daemon, get working your magic.’
‘Where’s the Banking Hall?’ Ella yelled at Vanka, who nodded and led her crawling to the back of the Commercial Centre and through a pair of wide double doors into the huge Banking Hall beyond. It was identical in size and layout to the one in Berlin, the only difference being that this room was silent, all the chattering screens were still. As she scuttled into the vast hall all she could hear was the snap of the hobnails of her boots on the Mantle-ite floor and the rattle and crack of rifle fire coming from the Commercial Centre. It was an eerie, desolate place – the green fluorescent glow of the Mantle-ite seemed more intense than she remembered from Berlin.
She strode over to the nearest Transfusion Booth and placed her hand on the indented shape to the left of the keyboard. Immediately the screen came to life, the rotating symbols clattering around.
THE BANK OF WARSAW WELCOMES ELLA THOMAS PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD
There was a tremendous explosion, big enough to send a shock wave shuddering through the hall that almost knocked Ella off her feet. ‘You’d better get a move on,’ urged Vanka. ‘I think the SS are a little annoyed about our taking the Bank. That was heavy artillery. Trixie Dashwood’s little band of desperadoes ain’t gonna last long against that.’
As quick as she was able, Ella typed in her password and accessed ABBA’s IM Manual, shuffled through to AMEND CYBERMILIEU CHARACTERISTICS, and then pressed ENTER.
WHICH ASPECT OF THE CYBER-MILIEU DO YOU WISH TO AMEND?
Ella typed ‘OPTIONS?’.
AMENDMENT OF CYBER-MILIEU CHARACTERISTICS
PARAMETERS THAT MAY BE AMENDED INCLUDE:
1. BLOOD SUPPLY
2. CLIMATE
3. COMMODITY SUPPLY
4. DEMOGRAPHY
5. ENVIRONMENTAL AND PHYSICAL CONSTRAINTS
6. FLORA AND FAUNA
7. GEOGRAPHY
8. HUB, THE
9. INDUSTRIAL ZONE, THE
10. IRRIGATION
11. PORTALS
12. RIVERINE CHARACTERISTICS
13. RUNES
14. SCALAR CHARACTERISTICS
15. TERROR INCOGNITA
16. TOPOGRAPHY
17. URBAN BAND, THE
18. WASTE MANAGEMENT AND THE SEWERAGE SYSTEM
Ella looked at the screen dumbfounded. There was no mention of the Boundary Layer. She felt panic well up inside her. What if she couldn’t do what she had said she could? What if all these brave WFA fighters were dying for nothing?
Think, Ella, think.
What was the Boundary Layer?
It was the means by which ParaDigm’s programmers had confined the population of the Demi-Monde. Therefore it was a ‘constraint’. She typed in ‘5’. Immediately the tiles that made up the screen began to clack around.
ENVIRONMENTAL AND PHYSICAL CONSTRAINTS
PARAMETERS THAT MAY BE AMENDED INCLUDE:
1. BOUNDARY LAYER
2. DEPTH OF SOIL LAYER
3. DISTRIBUTION AND VORACITY OF NANOBITES
4. THE MANTLE
Thank the Spirits!
She typed ‘1’.
BOUNDARY LAYER
PARAMETERS THAT MAY BE AMENDED INCLUDE:
1. DISTANCE FROM CENTRE OF THE DEMI-MONDE®
2. HEIGHT
3. PENETRABILITY
4. TACTILITY
5. TRANSPARENCY
Desperately trying to keep her hands from shaking, she typed in ‘3’.
BOUNDARY LAYER YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO AMEND: PENETRABILITY IS THIS TO BE A LOCAL AMENDMENT? Y/N
Yes, for the love of God, yes!
PLEASE USE THE MUTOSCOPE VIEWER
Ella did as she was asked and saw a map of the Demi-Monde displayed there. At the outer circumference of each District the Boundary was designated with a code, the code for the Warsaw District’s Boundary being WBL-1. Ella typed in the reference code.
DO YOU WISH THE BOUNDARY LAYER WBL-1 TO BE MADE PENETRABLE? Y/N
Yes, yes, yes…
IN WHAT TIME-FRAME (DEMI-MONDIAN REFERENCE) DO YOU WISH THIS AMENDMENT TO BE EXECUTED?
Frantically Ella typed ‘IMMEDIATE’.
CONGRATULATIONS ELLA THOMAS IN ACCORDANCE WITH PROTOCOL 57 YOU HAVE MADE AN EMERGENCY ONE-HOUR AMENDMENT TO THE PENETRABILITY OF THE BOUNDARY LAYER AT WBL-1. THIS AMENDMENT IS SUBJECT TO RATIFICATION BY THE DEMI-MONDE® STEERING COMMITTEE. IF SUCH RATIFICATION IS NOT RECEIVED THE AMENDMENT TO THE CYBER-MILIEU WILL BE ANNULLED IMMEDIATELY THE ONE-HOUR EMERGENCY PERIOD HAS ELAPSED. DO YOU REQUIRE ANY OTHER SERVICES? Y/N
Ella typed ‘Y’. This was her chance to find out where the SS were going to take Norma Williams after Wewelsburg Castle, to find out where Crowley would conduct his Rite of Transference.
THE DEMI-MONDE® IM MANUAL
OPTIONS:
1. LOCATE DUPE
2. ADD DUPE
3. DELETE DUPE
4. AMEND DUPE CHARACTERISTICS
5. AMEND DUPE PERCEPTIONS
6. AMEND CYBER-MILIEU CHARACTERISTICS
She pressed ‘1’ and immediately she was asked:
NAME OF DUPE TO BE LOCATED?
It was then that she remembered that because she was a renegade Dupe, ABBA wasn’t able to track Norma Williams.
Think…
She had a stroke of inspiration.
‘AALIZ HEYDRICH’, she typed.
The Transfer Screen whirled.
DUPE AALIZ HEYDRICH IS LOCATED AT EXTERSTEINE. DEMIMONDIAN COORDINATES SECTOR 1/N5°W/6.5MILES
Ella quizzed PINC regarding ExterSteine but again it let her down: it had no knowledge of the place.
But even as she desperately tried to memorise the coordinates of ExterSteine there was another tremendous explosion from the front of the Bank, and Trixie, followed by her bedraggled fighters, staggered into the Banking Hall. She looked across to Ella. ‘Have you done it?’ she shouted.
‘Yes,’ replied Ella. ‘Just one more minute.’
Trixie shook her head. ‘There are no more minutes. There’s nowhere to go and the SS are advancing. We’re trapped here. This is where we die.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Ella turned back to the Transfusion Booth.
‘It appears the rebels have ceased firing, Comrade Colonel.’
Archie Clement frowned. That wasn’t like the Rebs. As he’d seen over the past few weeks, these bastards fought like madmen, digging into every ruin, every cellar, every pothole and then fighting to the last man. Even his SS had been taken aback by their fanaticism and by how readily they were prepared to sacrifice their lives for their ridiculous cause. And it was all the fault of that bitch Trixie Dashwood.
But who could have thought it would have been a seventeen-year-old girl who would stiffen Dabrowski’s spine? Even Beria hadn’t seen that one coming. Without her the Poles would have folded in a fortnight, just as they had planned they would. That bitch had a lot to answer for.
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘They haven’t fired a shot for ten minutes.’
‘We got the steamers here yet?’
‘Just one, Comrade Colonel, the other was ambushed on Leshno. A couple of kids with firebombs…’
Clement nodded grim acknowledgement and spat out a wad of tobacco. These Rebs were fucked more ways that a ten-bob whore but still the diehards fought on. Fucking suicide bombers: it was impossible to defend against Rebs who were prepared to sacrifice their lives to blow up steamers. And the attrition rate had been fearful: more than half the steamers employed in the Ghetto had been lost to booby-traps and to incendiaries. The cost was ferocious and Horatio Bottomley was already sending letters of complaint to Crowley. Bottomley would just love it when he heard that the Rebs had retaken the Bank.
Clement lifted his cap and ran a hand through his blond hair. Why the Rebs had attacked the Bank was beyond him: they must know that he would never allow them to leave with any blood, they must know it was all pointless. All they had succeeded in doing was making him look foolish.
He kicked at a shell case, sending it skittering over the cobbles: that bastard Bottomley should get his fat arse down here to the Ghetto and help fight these lunatics, then he’d stop moaning about what the war was doing to his budget.
He just hoped Beria’s ruse worked.
‘Get a squad together to advance under cover of the steamer.’
‘Shall I make sure they’ve got a flamer with them, Comrade Colonel? Might be best to burn the buggers out. They could just be lying doggo in there, waiting for a chance to ambush us. You know how sneaky these Polaks are. They’ve no honour. They’re just fucking animals.’
What the SS Captain was saying made sense. It was standing operating procedure that once a Ghetto building was taken it should be packed full of straw, the straw doused with lamp oil and the whole lot set alight, burning up the building and any Rebs hiding in it. But not the Bank: incinerate a Blood Bank and Bottomley would really lose his rag.
‘No, Comrade Captain, no burning. This has gotta be done real delicate. Damage the Transfusion Booths in the Bank and you’ll be busted down to private quicker than a goose shits beans.’
The Captain shouted his orders and ten minutes later the steamer rumbled up. After weeks of fighting steamers were unrecognisable as the sleek machines that had begun the campaign: extra armour had been bolted around the vulnerable boiler, the driver’s cabin had been swathed in mesh to stop firebombs, and the body was covered in barbed wire to deter suicide bombers from leaping aboard. Now they looked what they were: ugly and brutal killing machines.
‘Number Five Troop: get ready to let it rip,’ yelled the Captain. ‘Stay to the left side of the steamer. That’s the side furthest away from the Reb bastards who will be trying to blow your damn fool heads off.’ He signalled the driver and with a lurch the steamer began to crunch toward the Bank.
Clement clicked his fingers and his aide handed him his telescope. He made a careful study of the Bank but apart from the tattered curtains drifting aimlessly in the breeze and a broken front door flapping backwards and forwards there was no movement and certainly no sign of Rebs waiting to open fire. An uneasy feeling drifted down his spine. Could the bastards have escaped? He dismissed the idea: it was still two hours to dusk, there were no sewers running under the Bank and his forces had a complete view of the whole circumference of the building. It was impossible for the Rebs to escape without being seen.
Maybe they’d simply decided they’d had enough. Maybe they’d committed suicide. Death before dishonour and all that.
The steamer was already halfway to the Bank and nary a shot had been fired.
Where were they? Maybe they were holed up in the Banking Hall. They’d know that the SS would be reluctant to fire in there.
The steamer smashed into the side of the Commercial Centre and as it scrabbled for grip its huge studded wheels gouged ruts into the granite pavement. For a minute or so it bucked and shoved in a futile demonstration of brute ignorance, then the drive shaft was disengaged and it stood huffing and puffing in disgruntled impotence.
Clement turned his telescope towards the crouching figure of the Captain, watched him make a signal and his SS StormTroopers race around the stalled steamer firing as they went. There were no answering shots and after a few seconds the shooting petered out in an embarrassed sort of way.
Silence.
They couldn’t all be dead, could they? Maybe the place was booby-trapped. The Rebs were experts at that: every bloody door, every staircase, every body of a dead SS trooper was wired to a grenade. He’d lost hundreds of men that way. And the ones who survived knew to be cautious. He just hoped the Captain was one of them.
Apparently he was. The Captain emerged from the Bank and signalled the all-clear.
Clement frowned: it had been too easy. He gestured to his bodyguards, and once they had flanked him began to walk across the square. He didn’t normally risk himself at the front line but in the case of a Bank he was prepared to make an exception. When he got to the Bank he saw that the front of it was a mess, with six bodies of Reb fighters lying on the ground amidst all the other detritus of war. The Captain was standing sheepishly in the corner of the Commercial Centre. ‘How many bodies, Comrade Captain?’
‘Just the six, Comrade Colonel.’
‘Six? So how many Rebs you reckon were holding this bombproof?’
‘I’m not sure, Comrade Colonel. They lost a hundred during their assault.’
Clement used the toe of his boot to nudge the arm of one of the dead rebels. The red lettering on the white armband tied around it read ‘WFA-D’. The ‘WFA’ Clement knew stood for ‘Warsaw Free Army’ so the ‘D’ presumably stood for ‘Dashwood’. Little Trixie Dashwood appeared to be becoming very full of herself.
‘The WFA-D is the Polaks’ best regiment, Comrade Colonel. We believe they were responsible for the seizure of the two barges that precipitated the attack on the Ghetto.’
Clement nodded. ‘Any bodies in the Banking Hall?’
The Captain ushered Clement through to the huge hall, which, apart from a couple of shattered candelabra and the haze of cordite that had drifted through from the front of the building, was undamaged. And there wasn’t a soul – dead or alive – to be seen. ‘So where are all the Rebs, Comrade Captain?’
‘They’re not here, Comrade Colonel.’
‘I can fucking see that!’ snarled Clement. ‘You trying to tell me that six Rebs held off five hundred SS StormTroopers for the most part of half an hour?’
‘Er… yes, Comrade Colonel.’
‘That’s real hard mouthing, Comrade Captain. You go around saying that one Reb is worth ninety-odd SS StormTroopers and you’re gonna earn yourself an invitation to a necktie party. That’s heresy.’
The unfortunate thing from Clement’s point of view was that though it was heresy it was also the only logical explanation, unless of course the Rebs had a witch working for them, a witch who was very adept at making fighters disappear into thin air.
Even Ella was astonished when she managed to conjure – literally – a manhole in the middle of the floor of the Transfer Hall. Everyone in the Demi-Monde knew that Mantle-ite was impenetrable.
‘How?’ Vanka asked as he stood open-mouthed, staring at the manhole.
‘I’ve altered the configuration of the Demi-Monde’s sewer system so that one comes up here under the floor of the Bank. But we’ve got to be quick: I programmed the amendment to last just twenty minutes. That’s enough time for us to get out, but hopefully not enough time for the SS to get here and discover how we escaped.’ Ella addressed the surviving members of Trixie Dashwood’s WFA-D regiment. ‘If we go now, there’s a chance we can get out of here with our lives.’
They didn’t need a second telling. The manhole cover was off in an instant and the hundred and ninety-odd survivors followed her through the sewers back to the Industrial Zone. It took twenty minutes of wading through shit and slime before they emerged and then, ever cautious, Ella insisted that it was she who was the first to climb the steps of the sewer pipe and push open the cover. When she poked her head out she was relieved to find that PINC hadn’t let her down: she was slap bang in the middle of Warsaw’s Industrial Zone amid a very boisterous crowd of Varsovians. There were shouts of greeting and then Delegate Trotsky bustled over to meet the returning troops.
‘Ah, the great thaumaturgist herself,’ he chortled as he helped haul Ella out from the sewer. ‘You have performed an amazing feat of magic, young lady.’
‘Is the Boundary Layer open?’ asked Ella as she tried to brush some of the worst of the sewer’s muck from her overalls.
‘It opened just as you said it would.’
‘When?’
‘Twenty… thirty minutes ago.’
‘Have you gotten everybody through? The opening in the Boundary Layer will close after one hour.’
‘All those Pilgrims…’
Pilgrims? ‘
… who wish to go are now on the other side of the Boundary. But please come and see for yourself; there are those who would like to thank their Saviour personally before the Boundary closes.’
Exhausted and filthy though she was, Ella allowed herself to be led through the streets of the Industrial Zone towards the Boundary, and an amazing sight awaited her there. It was as though a five-mile-long curtain of the sheerest blue chiffon had been pulled back to reveal the vast, seemingly endless plains of the Great Beyond, and there, standing silent and uncertain in that great sea of grass and woodland, were the people of Warsaw. There were millions of them: men and women laden with their bundles and their cases, children sitting on carts holding their dolls and their toys, families surrounded by their horses and by baskets full of squawking chickens. Certainly they looked worried – many of them looked just plain terrified – but there was a resolve about them that Ella found strangely uplifting. Gazing out on this huge exodus, Ella had never imagined that people could be possessed of such an indomitable spirit that they could endure and survive all the hate and fury that the ForthRight had thrown at them and still have the strength and resolve to take on a new adventure.
Colonel Dabrowski was there with the migrants, leaning on the shoulder of a young woman. He saluted Ella as she passed. He looked spent but happy enough: perhaps, she thought, that was what Dabrowski needed, a fresh start away from all the killing and the violence.
As she walked towards the open Boundary, the crowd parted before her, the men and women of the WFA following Dabrowski’s lead and saluting her. It was a surreal moment and not one she particularly enjoyed; it was too embarrassing for that.
Trotsky brought Ella to a halt at the very edge of the Boundary and then in a loud voice addressed the people of Warsaw. ‘Lady IMmanual…’
Lady IMmanual? Where had that come from?
‘… you have revealed yourself to be our most Revered Messiah, sent by ABBA to lead the people of Warsaw from the jaws of death to a new life in a new world. For that we give thanks and the assurance that you will never be forgotten.’ With that he knelt before her and kissed her hand. As one, everyone else knelt.
All Ella could do was stand and shuffle her feet un -comfortably.
‘Will you say something before we leave this world of strife for ever?’ asked Trotsky.
Now they want me to start making speeches. What do you say to people who are about to venture into the unknown?
She turned towards the kneeling crowd, looking out over the millions of people. Suddenly she remembered a long, long time ago standing in this very spot with her people bowed before her. But she hadn’t been Ella Thomas, she’d been…
Who?
Then she had stood before her kneeling worshippers naked, shaven, her skin dyed a deep crimson and black snakes tattooed over her body. She could see herself: it was a revelation so real that it transcended deja vu. It was so real that it was deja vecu: the feeling that she had already lived… already lived as some type of pagan goddess.
Lilith…
And then in an instant the vision was gone, but the memory brought a change in her. Now the words simply flowed out. ‘We are very different,’ she said in her loudest voice. ‘The Demi-Monde is not my home and I came here reluctantly. But in the DemiMonde, living alongside the people of Warsaw, I have learnt many lessons. And the most important of these is that every man, woman and child, no matter how they are created and no matter how they look or think, deserves an opportunity to live without fear of persecution. My heart goes out to all those of you who have lost loved ones…’ She had to stop for a moment as the memory of all those poor men and women being murdered by the SS flashed before her eyes. ‘But now, thanks to ABBA and the IM Manual, you have all been offered a new start in a new world. I beg you, make this world one where there is no hatred and no animosity. Make it a world of tolerance and understanding, a world where differences unite men and women rather than divide them, where everyone, no matter what their colour or their gender, is treated equally. You have an opportunity to make a New World and I call on you not just to make it a New World but also a Just and a Peaceful World. May ABBA be with you all.’
Trotsky stood up and bowed. ‘We will always give thanks to the Lord ABBA and his most Holy Daughter, the one He sent to save us and to lead us to the Promised Land, our Messiah: the Lady IMmanual. Henceforward we will keep this day holy. Henceforth this will be the PassOver, the day when the people blessed by the Lady IMmanual passed over from the DemiMonde into the Promised Land.’
Sermon over, her congregation had got back to its feet and its members busied themselves making their final preparations for what they were calling the Great Pilgrimage. Ella sidled up to Trotsky.
‘Delegate Trotsky,’ she said quietly, ‘before you go I would like your advice.’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘You are a very knowledgeable man, so tell me why someone as important as Aaliz Heydrich should have been taken to a place called ExterSteine.’
‘ExterSteine is a place of immense occult significance, my Lady; it is UnFunDaMentalism’s holiest of holies. For Aaliz Heydrich to have been taken there means she is to be involved in one of Aleister Crowley’s despicable rites, and as it is so close to Spring Eve…’
‘Spring Eve?’
‘Freyja’s Night: the last night of Winter. It is, after Walpurgis -nacht, the most magical night in the UnFunDaMentalist calendar. It is the night when Crowley performs his most profound magic. It must be that Aaliz Heydrich is to participate in this year’s Freyja’s Night rituals: these always take place at ExterSteine, and must always be completed before dawn. Does this answer your question, my Lady?’
‘Yes… thank you. And may I wish you and your people every good fortune and every happiness in the Great Beyond.’ She looked up and frowned. ‘I think this is when we say goodbye, Delegate Trotsky. If I am not mistaken, the Boundary Layer is beginning to close.’
Trixie stood watching as the crowds that made up the exodus trudged deeper and deeper into the Great Beyond. She understood that Trotsky was intent on setting up the first settlement around the Blood Bank situated five miles from the Boundary but there were other, more adventurous spirits who had decided that they wouldn’t settle until they had explored all of the Beyond. These brave souls had already marched over the horizon: the colonisation of the Great Beyond had begun.
She felt the looming presence of Wysochi at her side and gave him a wry smile. ‘I thought you would have gone with the Pilgrims, Sergeant. I always had you marked down as the pioneer type, the sort of man who could tame a wilderness.’
A sheepish Wysochi shook his head. ‘Nah, Colonel, I couldn’t go.’
It took a moment for Trixie to remember who the ‘Colonel’ was that Wysochi was referring to. She’d only been given command of the remnants of the WFA half an hour ago. ‘Now that does surprise me, Sergeant. There isn’t some girl here in Warsaw who has stolen the heart of the brave and resolute Feliks Wysochi, is there?’
‘No… of course not.’ He shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘What about you, Colonel? Weren’t you tempted?’
It was a disturbing question. In fact when she thought about it she realised that she had never for an instant contemplated going, which was odd because up until a few weeks ago the RaTionalist that had been Lady Trixiebell Dashwood would have leapt at the chance to explore the Great Beyond. How things – how she – had changed. ‘No, my place is here in the Demi-Monde. I’ve got things to do here.’
‘Like what?’
‘Avenge my father,’ she answered automatically and then realised that she hadn’t actually thought about her father for days… for weeks. All she ever seemed to think about was killing SS StormTroopers. ‘I’ve got to defeat Heydrich and the ForthRight. I’ve got to smash UnFunDaMentalism: I’ve had a bellyful of religion.’
‘Good,’ said Wysochi. He kicked the ground in an absentminded sort of way. ‘And what do you make of Ella Thomas?’ he asked casually.
Trixie moved nearer to Wysochi so that there would be no danger of their conversation being overheard. ‘I am never comfortable with religious types, Sergeant, especially those who have performed miracles. It gets the men confused: they don’t know whether they should obey their officers or their god.’
‘Still, it’s good for the men to believe that ABBA is on their side.’
‘ABBA is one thing, live saints are quite another, especially live saints who go around preaching democracy. And I still have a suspicion that when – if – she gets back to the Spirit World then it will go badly for the Demi-Monde. That Shade Daemon is bad news.’
Wysochi frowned as he pondered on what Trixie was saying. ‘I see what you mean. So what do you think we should do? She’s very popular with the men: they’re calling her the Messiah.’
‘And that’s what makes her so dangerous, Sergeant. We can’t allow her to infect the men with her stupid Daemonic ideas. Things like this democracy of hers…’ Trixie gave a dismissive laugh. ‘The last thing I want is for the men to start believing that they have some ABBA-given right to elect their Leader. The election of a Leader is a fatuous idea and will only result in anarchy and disorder. If the WFA is to survive and the ForthRight is to be defeated we have to unite behind one strong Leader.’ The way she said this meant there was absolutely no doubt as to whom she saw that strong Leader being.
‘Then it would be better if Ella Thomas was to…’ Wysochi left the suggestion hanging.
Trixie smiled. ‘Death solves all problems, Sergeant: no Messiah, no problem. And I suppose on a battlefield it’s very easy for a live saint to become a much mourned martyr.’
Wysochi nodded. ‘Very easy.’
‘How many of the WFA are left?’ Trixie asked.
‘Maybe four thousand, give or take. We’ve lost a thousand holding the Industrial Zone and about a thousand opted to go with Trotsky and the other Pilgrims into the Beyond.’
‘From acorns, Sergeant, great oaks do grow. One day people will say that from these four thousand grew the army that defeated the ForthRight and smashed UnFunDaMentalism. But now, Sergeant, we have to make some hard decisions. There are too few of us to hold the Industrial Zone, so the only option is to break out of the Ghetto. That though raises the question as to where we go once we do that.’
‘The Coven,’ Wysochi answered. ‘Delegate Trotsky received a message by pigeon post from the Empress Wu saying that the Coven will grant all members of the WFA sanctuary. It seems Wu has finally come to understand that it’s impossible to trust Heydrich. The Coven is preparing for war.’
Trixie nodded. ‘Then that’s where we must go. I guess Clement will take a few days to bring up his reserves before he attacks. In five days’ time, on the first day of Spring, that’s when I reckon he’ll try to take us. And that’s when we’ll break out, on Spring Eve. Clement will never expect that, and maybe with surprise on our side…’
The pair of them began to walk towards the building where the rest of the WFA officers were waiting, but ten yards or so before the entrance Trixie stopped, turned to Wysochi and held out her hand. ‘There may not be time later, Sergeant. I would like to thank you for everything. Without you…’
‘There’s no need to thank me, Colonel.’
‘Trixie.’
‘Trixie.’ Wysochi shook the offered hand. ‘I would do it all again, Trixie, and gladly.’
‘You should have gone to the Beyond, Feliks.’
‘Not without you, Trixie,’ said Wysochi, ‘not without you.’ And as he turned away, Trixie was sure he was blushing.
Vanka tossed his cigarette down, ground the butt under his heel and pushed himself away from the pile of crates he had been hiding behind for the past five minutes. He watched as Trixie Dashwood and Sergeant Wysochi disappeared into the building and then gave his head a philosophical shake. Why was it that people always disappointed him?