The Demi-Monde: Winter (52 page)

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 déjà vu. It was so real that it was déjà vécu: 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?

I am pleased to announce that following much diligent and painstaking work my team at the Reinhard Heydrich Institute have successfully uncovered the secrets of galvanicEnergy, the solution of which has eluded us for so many years. Although our experimentation regarding the harnessing of this remarkable new energy source is in its infancy, we will be pleased to demonstrate our galvanicEnergy generator – the Faraday Thermopile – to you at your earliest convenience. The Thermopile, which converts heat energy into galvanicEnergy, is now fully tested and has been proven to be both safe and reliable. I trust that after said demonstration you will be moved to release the long overdue tranche of funds owed to the Institute in order that I might pay my loyal and long-suffering staff.

– letter written by Professor Michael Faraday
to Comrade Vice-Leader Beria,
dated 17th day of Autumn 1004

Tonight he would reclaim his title. No longer would he be Comrade Commissar Dashwood. From tonight he would, once again, be Baron Dashwood, Royalist nobleman and officer. The waiting was over.

Tonight he would disrupt Operation Barbarossa by destroying
the railway line he had built and bring help to Trixie – hadn’t she been a revelation! – and her beleaguered WFA.

‘Are all the men in position, Captain?’ the Baron asked.

‘Yes, Sir,’ beamed Crockett, who delighted in his new rank. ‘Sergeant Cassidy has seven of our best men – all veterans of the Troubles – stationed on the Odessa side of the Reinhard Heydrich Bridge. He has orders to derail the train before it picks up speed after crossing the bridge.’

‘How many men do we have to take the internment camp?’

‘Twenty, Sir. I’ve included a number of Poles, Sir, officers cashiered out of the army in the purge that followed the Dabrowski debacle.’

‘Good thinking, Crockett.’ And it was good thinking: the Baron had been more than a little concerned about the reception he would get from the Polish slave workers when he came to free them. To have a few Poles on his side wouldn’t be a bad thing. He took a deep breath. ‘And so, let’s get to it. And may ABBA be with you … with all of us.’

After an uneventful journey through the Rookeries – with it being Spring Eve, even the most dutiful of soldiers relaxed their watch a little – Cassidy brought the stolen steamer carrying the Baron and his party to the Reinhard Heydrich Railway Bridge a little after seven in the evening.

Spring Eve: the Time of Brotherhood and Good Will Towards Men, but Sergeant Bob Cassidy and his men showed precious little of either towards the poor drunken unfortunates who were guarding the railway bridge. Even as the guards raised their glasses in a festive toast, so they were dispensed with in a flurry of shots.

Once the bridge was secure, Cassidy was about his business. He waved his band of ruffians out of the shadows where they
had been lurking and into position to await the arrival of the military transport train scheduled to cross the bridge in just an hour’s time.

The operation had gone so smoothly that all that was left for the Baron to do was to shake Cassidy’s hand, to wish him luck, and to remind him – for at least the fifth time – that he shouldn’t use more than two hundred pounds of explosives to derail the train. It was difficult for the Baron to establish whether Cassidy took his instructions seriously as all the man’s attention was directed to the rifling of a dead guard’s pockets.