The Demi-Monde: 40th Day of Winter, 1004
UnFunDaMentalism is an array of political, racial, metaPhysical, sexual and social ideas and philosophies relating to the purification of the Demi-Mondian race, the triumph of the Aryan people and the rehabilitation of the semi-mythological Pre-Folk. Adopted as the state religion of the ForthRight, the ultimate aim of UnFunDaMentalism is, by a process of selective breeding and measured culling, to eliminate the contamination of the UnderMentionable races from the Demi-Monde’s Aryan stock (Aryans are generally considered to be the Anglo-Slavic races) and by doing so to return the Aryan people to the racial perfection they possessed before their ancestors – the Pre-Folk – fell from ABBA’s Grace.
– Religions of the Demi-Monde: Otto Weininger, University of Berlin Publications
Comrade Commissar Dashwood made a point of arriving at his ministry before seven. He knew that only by working fourteen hours a day would he be able to ensure that the deadline for the building of the new railway lines would be met. And as Comrade Leader Heydrich had decreed that the railway lines were vital to the success of the ForthRight’s imminent invasion of the Coven, missing the deadline would make it very much a dead line: Comrade Leader Heydrich rewarded failure in a very uncompromising fashion.
But even as the slave-driver brought his steamer to a wheezing halt in front of the Ministry building, Dashwood knew that there was something unexpected taking place at the Ministry of Transport, that today wasn’t going to be a normal day. He had an unmistakable feeling in his water that signalled him to be extra-careful.
It might have been that the Militia officers patrolling the top of the steps leading to the Ministry’s great double doors were decidedly less sleepy than they usually were at this time of the morning. It might have been that their salute was a trifle crisper and more enthusiastic than he was used to. Tiny things but important; important to notice, that is, if you wanted to stay alive in the internecine bedlam that was the ForthRight.
Oh, please don’t let it be another purge. Surely enough of us have died already?
As Dashwood strode imperiously across the great marble floor of the Ministry he tried to distract himself from these disturbing thoughts by adding up all those who had died in the Cleansing.
A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand?
No… the Party had arrested and executed nearly a quarter of a million persons – individuals – after the Troubles, accusing them of being Royalists, Counter-Revolutionaries and Enemies of the People and sending them – Dashwood was disgusted that it had been he who had cravenly signed the transportation dockets – to the Warsaw Ghetto and to the death camps in the Hub. Overnight – and the arrests had always been made at night or when thick smog had enveloped the Rookeries – Dashwood had seen many of his friends, his relatives and members of the Court disappear into the Checkya’s black-painted steamers, never to be seen again.
And he had been complicit in their destruction.
That had been the price the Party had demanded for his survival and that of his family: complicity in mass murder. Maybe now it was his turn to be purged? As he walked through the Ministry he racked his mind, trying to identify what infraction he might have committed that would have persuaded Beria – the head of the ForthRight’s dreaded secret police, the Checkya – to sign his death warrant. He had been so very careful.
He stopped for an instant.
Maybe Trixiebell…
Oh please, not Trixiebell. Not his precious little Trixie.
For a second he was tempted to turn on his heel and scuttle off home, collect Trixie, jump on a barge heading for the Hub and seek exile in… in where exactly? The sad truth was that there was nowhere to run to in the Demi-Monde.
The Checkya had a long reach, and, from what he had heard yesterday at the PolitBuro meeting, by the Summer the ForthRight Army would have conquered the Coven and would, in all probability, be turning its malignant attention towards the Quartier Chaud. Maybe he and Trixie should try NoirVille? Somehow though he didn’t think Trixie was cut out for a life in purdah. HimPerialism was a harsh regime and very antagonistic towards women, especially independently minded women like Trixie. No, there was nowhere to run to, and, anyway, he had other things to do, other things to organise.
Dashwood stopped before the great oak door of his office and took a moment to brush a few errant steamer cinders from his immaculate suit. He doffed his top hat, took the door’s handle in a firm grasp and entered. When he saw the man who was sitting behind his desk, idly smoking a cigarette and very systematically scanning his correspondence, all his worst fears were realised.
‘Ah, Comrade Commissar Dashwood… at last. I am royally blessed.’
Dashwood fidgeted uncomfortably under Beria’s scrutiny. The rather feeble joke Beria had made – a reference to Dashwood’s aristocratic lineage: he had once been Baron Dashwood – was one he would do well to mark. Beria’s purge of the aristocracy after the Troubles had condemned almost all of those with any hint of a royal pedigree – like Dashwood – to a painful death.
Desperately he tried to compose himself. Automatically he raised his forearm to give the Party salute. ‘Two Sectors Forged as One,’ he intoned.
Beria flipped an arm casually in response and then made a great show of checking his watch. ‘Your secretary informed me you would be at your office at seven. It is now three minutes past: I trust, Comrade Commissar, this is not a demonstration of the laxity with which you order the rest of the workings of your ministry.’
‘No, Vice-Leader, Comrade Beria.’
Vice-Leader: had there ever been a more appropriate title?
With a bleak smile Beria nodded him towards the guest chair stationed in front of the desk. As he sat down, Dashwood was suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He twisted around and saw the tall, saturnine figure of an army officer lurking in the corner.
‘This is Captain Jan Dabrowski, a member of the Checkya,’ advised Beria idly.
The Captain offered no salute: he just stood, cold and implacable, staring at Dashwood’s neck. Dabrowski certainly looked the part of a secret policeman and Dashwood had absolutely no doubt that this Polish bastard – he was instantly identifiable as a Pole by his lapel flashes – would do whatever it was his master commanded, murder included.
‘I had not been aware, Comrade Commissar,’ began Beria as he arranged Dashwood’s desk stationery in a more precise fashion, ‘that you worked to such an undemanding schedule. A seven o’clock start – even on a Sunday – is decidedly remiss. We are, as you know, about to embark on the divinely ordained crusade to cleanse the Demi-Monde of UnderMentionables, of the nuJu and Shade scum which contaminate our world, and to be successful Operation Barbarossa will require diligence and sacrifice by all Party members. The Party demands sacrifice and it behoves us, the upper echelon, to set an example. I myself am never at my office later than five in the morning: I would suggest you imitate my example.’
‘Yes, Vice-Leader.’
Get on with it, you bastard.
‘You are, after all, Comrade Commissar, one of the few survivors of the Court of that Arch-Imperialist and Oppressor of the People, Henry Tudor. Anything less than total dedication to the Party and to Comrade Leader Heydrich could be interpreted as your having recidivist tendencies.’
‘Comrade Leader Heydrich should have no doubts as to my total and undying loyalty to the ForthRight and to the Party.’
Beria slowly drew a handkerchief out of his sleeve, used it to shine his tiny spectacles and then dabbed it to his moist lips. ‘I am sure the Leader will be delighted to hear of your declaration of fealty, especially as I am here to present you with an opportunity to perform a great service to the Party and to the ForthRight.’
Dashwood almost cried with relief: he wasn’t going to be purged. Not today, anyway. ‘I am ready to perform any task that might be of service to our Leader.’
‘The Leader was impressed with you when you attended the PolitBuro meeting yesterday. You are held in high esteem by the Great Leader. Your expertise in logistics is second-to-none.’
Which is probably why I haven’t been purged, mused Dashwood.
Yet.
Beria leant back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling as though in search of higher inspiration. ‘But unfortunately I cannot say the same thing about all your family. I had Captain Dabrowski attend a social given by Mrs Albemarle two days ago with the express intention of making an evaluation of your daughter.’
Dashwood stiffened in his chair and he felt a shiver run down his spine: in the ForthRight the word ‘evaluate’ was replete with many meanings, none of them good.
‘My daughter?’ he asked as casually as he was able.
Beria didn’t answer immediately. Instead he pulled a buff-coloured file towards him, opened it and began slowly to turn each of the pages, studying them with theatrical exactitude. ‘For one so young, your daughter has amassed a commendably… or should that be censurably thick file.’ He shook his head in mock astonishment. ‘From what I can glean, the received wisdom is that your daughter has all the hallmarks of a future trouble-maker, a girl with potentially disruptive HerEtical tendencies. It takes real counter-revolutionary zeal to be Censured before the age of sixteen.’
‘Trixiebell was very upset by the death of her mother…’
‘But to have publicly lambasted her UnFunDaMentalist Ideology Tutor for teaching, and I quote here, “twaddle”. Tut, tut, tut… this is not something one expects from the daughter of a high-ranking Party official. She also seems to have made a protest to the Principal of her academy regarding the removal of references to a nonNix… an unperson.’
Dashwood did his best to defend his daughter. ‘Trixiebell was chastised and attended a two-week Political Re-Education Camp last Summer. I am sure she is now totally realigned both politically and ideologically.’
‘I wish I could share your confidence, Comrade Commissar. Young people today are such a trial. Unfortunately, the report of the Captain here suggests that your daughter is still possessed of subversive inclinations.’
Dashwood surreptitiously unclipped the holster that held his Colt revolver. If there was one thing he was certain of it was that he wouldn’t let Trixie fall into the hands of this degenerate. He’d kill Beria first.
Beria picked up a likeness of Trixie from the file and studied it. ‘Your daughter is very beautiful, Comrade Commissar.’ He licked his lips. ‘So slim, so blonde, so athletic, but, unfortunately, so wilful. It would be a tragedy, would it not, to lose such a perfect example of Aryan womanhood to the pernicious cant of HerEticalism? The Captain has suspicions that your daughter could be a proto-RaTionalist… perhaps even a Suffer-O-Gette.’
‘Never.’
‘Perhaps that is a little excessive. But I must warn you, Comrade Commissar, that your daughter is on the slippery slope that leads to destruction. However, your daughter’s teachers report that she is remarkably intelligent and a gifted debater.’ He took a pull on his cigarette, then blew a nimbus of smoke up to the ceiling. ‘I have a task that requires the services of a young girl… an intelligent young girl. It is a task that, if performed with diligence, will result in the rather compromising contents of this file’ – here he closed the file and tossed it disdainfully into the waste-basket – ‘being consigned to oblivion.’
‘And what is this task?’ asked Dashwood.