Fall

by Rod Rees

  By NoirVillian standards it was just a little innocent flirting but, as was his wont, Holder overreacted.

  ‘Get thee behind me, you black pervert … you spawn of Satan.’

  ‘Wha’ yo’ say?’

  ‘I said, fuck off, you black bastard.’

  The Shade looked at Holder as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing and then a smile wrapped itself over his face. ‘Man, yo’s one Blank who’s wanting to commune with ABBA real urgent.’ And with that he smashed his fist into Holder’s face.

  A blow like that would have felled most men, but Holder wasn’t most men. He was big and powerful and his nervous system so primitive that it was incapable of communicating messages from his jaw to his brain, messages to the effect that said brain should be shutting down for a while. But the one thing the piece of muscle that masqueraded as his brain could do efficiently was to signal that it was pissed off. An angry Holder hauled out the M-29 he had hidden under his coat and started blasting away.

  Amongst the things the US military used the Demi-Monde for was to test a number of its newer weapons, and one of the most successful of these was the sloBurst ammunition Holder had loaded in his rifle. The sloBurst was a dumdum for the twenty-first century, designed to explode just a nanosecond after impact. As such, the sloBurst was lethal against soft targets, and as soft targets went, the NoirVillians crowding the market square were up there with the best of them.

  The boy let rip with a full magazine, blowing the HimPeril agents and a whole swathe of shoppers to dog meat. In seconds the pungent aroma of the marketplace had been augmented with the stench of vaporised SAE. As the assault rifle clicked on empty, thirty busted bodies were lying in a circle around Holder and the rest of the crowd had been reduced to a screaming, panic-stricken mob. Seeing his chance to make a getaway, Massie grabbed Holder by the shoulder and dragged him in the direction of the gate leading to the JAD.

  1:04

  The JAD, NoirVille

  The Demi-Monde: 85th Day of Summer, 1005

  PigeonGram sent by George Villiers on the 86th day of Summer, 1005

  Corporal 1st Class Dean Moynahan was bored. Not with the Demi-Monde … he liked the Demi-Monde because – paradoxically – it seemed more real than the Real World … the Demi-Monde had a vibrancy and an urgency about it that was absent in the Real World.

  No, what was boring Moynahan was having to man the shitty first-floor room overlooking the entrance to the Portal that Captain Simmons – prick that he was – insisted on calling ‘Observation Post #1’. What Moynahan was meant to be observing he wasn’t too sure, but orders – in this case, ‘look out for any atypical Dupe behaviour’ – were orders. It seemed that the firefight that had gone down in the Khan al-Kalili souk just an hour ago had got the good captain spooked. And that was why Moynahan was sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette – the Demi-Monde wasn’t big on health and safety regulations – working on his distance-learning course in linguistics and watching the crowds of JADniks streaming past along the cobbled streets below.

  He took another glance up and down Bar-Ilan Street but as far as he could see none of the nuJu men were doing anything remotely ‘atypical’, just going about their very typical business like they did on any other typical day. They were all sporting typical kippahs and broad-brimmed hats and wandering around in their typical zoot suits or sitting at the zinc-topped tables in the cafés that lined the street enjoying a typically bracing cup of café au gore. None of them seemed to be taking an undue interest in the Portal, but that was hardly surprising given that it was hidden inside a nondescript warehouse set in a nondescript terrace running along a nondescript street across from the nondescript house where Moynahan was sitting.

  Moynahan yawned and tried to stretch the sleep out of his body. And it was a big body too: he measured six-three in his stocking feet and weighed in at two hundred pounds, all of it honed muscle.

  He stopped yawning.

  There was a flash of red in the street below and that, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, was the red of the robe of a Visual Virgin. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He had never seen a VV before and he didn’t want to make a mistake. VVs – according to the briefing sheets pinned to the notice board in the Portal – were ‘a real and present danger’. With the Lady IMmanual having become such a big deal in Venice, most of the VVs had decamped to the JAD, which was bad news for Real Worlders trying to keep a low profile in the JAD. Word had it that a Visual Virgin could spot a Real Worlder easy as blinking. Real Worlders had atypical auras.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t seeing things, he hit the panic button which connected the Observation Post with the Portal across the street, ringing the warning bell that told the rest of the platoon to keep out of sight and away from the windows.

  ‘Hey, Sergeant,’ Moynahan yelled, as he reached for his M-29, ‘I think we might have ourselves a situation.’

  Sergeant Sol Edelstein reluctantly opened an eye and used it to give Moynahan a quizzical look. ‘What you hollering about, Moynahan?’

  ‘There’s a VV down there in the street, snooping around.’

  Edelstein was over by the window like a shot, though he made damned sure that most of his bulk was hidden behind the threadbare curtains. ‘Where?’ And Moynahan pointed to the end of the street.

  The VV was a trim, tall and imperious piece dressed in the diaphanous red robe that was synonymous with the Virgins and wearing a red half-veil that hid most of what Moynahan suspected was a very beautiful face.

  ‘What do you reckon she’s doing here?’

  ‘I think she’s shopping,’ ventured Moynahan. ‘I mean, even VVs have to shop, don’t they, Sarge?’

  Edelstein didn’t say a word, all his attention fixed on the girl as she sauntered along the market stalls that lined the street. ‘I think you’re right, Moynahan. I think her showing up here is just bad luck. As long as our guys don’t break cover, we’re gonna be okay.’

  That was when their luck went from bad to worse.

  Two guys shuffled up to the door of the Portal and began hammering on it. Although they were dressed like Demi-Mondians, Moynahan had the unsettling feeling that he knew them. The dime dropped. ‘Fuck, Sarge, that’s Jake Massie and Holy Holder down there!’

  Edelstein stuck his head nearer to the glass pane. ‘Fuck … you’re right. Shit, those dumbasses are gonna get spotted by the VV. Get down there and make sure that she don’t raise the alarm.’

  *

  Moynahan scooted down the narrow staircase three steps at a time, checking that his folding-stock M-29 was slung, ready and willing, under his armpit as he went. He had to get to the VV before she began hooting and hollering to any IRGON agents: if she did, then everything would go FUBAR and none of them would ever get back to the Real World. The IRGON were the closest thing the nuJus had to a secret police.

  He slammed his way out through the building’s front door and into the street, shoving pedestrians carelessly aside as he barrelled his way in the direction of the VV. The running VV …

  The girl had obviously spotted Massie and Holder and was now exiting stage left, pounding the pavement in the direction of the IRGON offices in the market square. Moynahan gave chase: he had to intercept her before she raised the alarm. And while he sure as hell didn’t like the idea of killing a woman, he kept reminding himself that she was only a Dupe, she wasn’t real. But somehow that didn’t make the prospect of offing a girl any more palatable. Maybe he was in the wrong line of business.

  He was nearer to her now, almost within shooting distance. She was pretty easy to track, the red robe she was wearing made her stand out like a beacon and she was so tall he could see her over the heads of the crowd. And despite her size, she had difficulty getting through the hordes of people swarming around the souk and with every second that passed Moynahan elbowed himself closer. She dodged across the road, lizarding between the steamers and the carts chuntering along the street, and that was when Moynahan’s luck t
urned: a steamer skidded to a halt in front of her, blocking her escape.

  Now …

  Moynahan unslung the M-29, clicked off the safety and swung the stubby barrel in the girl’s direction. She turned to look at him.

  Fuck, she’s pretty.

  Even though she was wearing a half-veil, it was impossible not to appreciate how lovely the girl was … too lovely to murder. Moynahan’s finger relaxed on the trigger and that moment’s hesitation on his part saved her life. Her beautiful eyes widened in fear as she saw her pursuer and she took off like a startled deer, with a cursing Moynahan hammering in her wake.

  She’d have got away too if the Black Hand Gang hadn’t intervened.

  *

  To Izzi Qassam the tenets of HimPerialism were incapable of interpretation or of dispute. What was stated in the HIM Book – HimPerialism’s holiest book – was, as far as he was concerned, the sacred word of ABBA, and since ABBA was the infallible font of all truth, what was said in the HIM Book was fact.

  And on the subject of NoirVille the HIM Book was exact and unambiguous: ABBA had given the land of NoirVille to the Shade races of the Demi-Monde in gratitude for their revered forefather, Nûh, saving HumanKind after the Deluge, and, being ABBA-given, NoirVille was not to be sold, gifted or in any way disposed of … especially not to those accursed nuJus, who were reviled by ABBA for having built the Sphinx.

  This was why Qassam opposed the policy adopted by His HimPerial Majesty Shaka Zulu, which had granted the nuJus a home – the JAD – in NoirVille. Of course, he understood the economic imperatives underpinning Shaka’s decision: the nuJus had the secret of how to manufacture Aqua Benedicta, which was the vital component that made NoirVille pre-eminent in the trade of blood, but to Izzi Qassam’s mind the need to follow ABBA’s word transcended all material or financial considerations. No amount of money could buy a Man’s way into Paradise.

  As far as Izzi Qassam was concerned, it was incumbent upon all True Believers to work unceasingly to remove the canker that was the JAD from the blessed body of NoirVille. He had formed the Black Hand Gang of like-minded zealots to do just that: to frighten the nuJus in the JAD such that their continued occupation of NoirVille became untenable. And this morning it was more important than ever to punish the infidel nuJus for their infamy. Hadn’t they just committed a vile atrocity against the peaceful and non-violent people of NoirVille? Hadn’t two Blanks – undoubtedly nuJus – opened fire with automatic rifles and slaughtered thirty innocents in Khan al-Kalili souk? Swift and terrible revenge had to be taken for this savage crime and that was why Izzi Qassam was loitering in a café across from the Market Square headquarters of the IRGON, with a Luger automatic in his jacket pocket and a bag full of explosives on the floor by his feet.

  Something made him look up and what he saw made him start so suddenly that he slopped his coffee over the tabletop. A Visual Virgin – the living embodiment of the foul creed of ImPuritanism and of the corruption of woeMan – was scuttling across the market square in the direction of the IRGON’s headquarters. He could hardly believe his eyes: it was a very rare occurrence for Whorealists to leave the cloistered confinement of their convent and venture out in public.

  Qassam rose from his seat, tossed coins onto the table, hitched his bag over his shoulder and made for the café’s exit signalling to his two brothers-in-arms to follow him. To destroy a Visual Virgin on the very doorstep of the IRGON offices would be a huge blow to nuJu morale.

  *

  Sister Maria, near-Senior Maiden in the Sacred and All-Seeing Convent of Visual Virgins, was – now that Sister Florence had joined ABBA in the Spirit World – the most powerful Auralist alive and it was this uncanny ability to discern the character of individuals by the study of the multicoloured penumbra surrounding their bodies that had allowed her to understand that the two men banging on the door of the warehouse were Daemons.

  And that the huge man chasing her was also one of this foul breed.

  Even as she’d turned in the direction of the IRGON station to alert the authorities that there was a nest of Daemons in their midst, she had seen him come bursting out of the building opposite, his aura aflame with angry scarlets and panicked magentas. Sister Maria had taken to her heels but the brute had closed on her, using his inhuman strength to batter his way through the swarms of people blocking the street. Despite her best efforts he had nearly caught her when she had been trying – desperately – to negotiate her way across Machane Yehuda Street, but then – amazingly – he had hesitated and just for an instant she could have sworn his aura had been infused with compassionate lavender. Obviously she was mistaken: Daemons were not human and therefore did not possess the higher emotions such as love and mercy.

  Whatever had made the beast stay his hand, Sister Maria knew not to tempt fate a second time and so she lifted the skirts of her robe, scuttling between the market stalls until she came breathless to the entrance to the IRGON headquarters.

  ‘Please,’ she gasped to the two guards standing on sentry duty at the doors, ‘I am being chased by a Daemon. I need your protect—’

  She never finished the sentence. There was a crack of a pistol shot and the IRGON agent to her left was rammed backwards as though punched in the chest. Someone screamed, ‘Death to all those who would defile the sacred land of NoirVille!’ Instantly the second IRGON agent hurled Maria to the ground and threw himself over her. Then all Hel broke loose.

  *

  Moynahan watched helplessly as the VV climbed the steps to the entrance of the IRGON offices, as she began to talk to one of the guards standing there, as she began gesticulating anxiously in his direction, then …

  A group of three Shades, all of them brandishing pistols, attacked.

  Before anyone realised what was happening, there was a crackle of shots and one of the IRGON guards crumpled to the ground. In an instant the peaceful, bustling marketplace was reduced to panic, as men desperately sought cover away from the gunfire and women frantically dragged their terrified children to safety.

  That was when the leader of the three gunmen hurled a haversack towards the entrance. The resulting explosion was so powerful that it pushed Moynahan off his feet and sent him tumbling to the cobbles, his ears ringing. When he came to his senses, the scene that confronted him was one of carnage, his training telling him that the terrorist had thrown a nail bomb, the ensuing shrapnel taking out a whole swathe of bystanders who now lay wailing and shrieking on the ground.

  Miraculously the VV had survived, shielded from the blast by a guard who had so heroically protected her, the girl now, bemused and confused, crawling around on her hands and knees. She wouldn’t be crawling for very long, though, the lead gunman was standing over her with his automatic pointed at her head.

  Instinct took over and Moynahan attacked. He couldn’t see a girl murdered in cold blood – or even in cold SAE. It wasn’t right. Ignoring the protests of his bruised and battered body, he leapt to his feet and shoulder-charged the man square in his back, sending him sprawling, then scooped the girl up in his arms.

  ‘If you want to live, trust me,’ he bellowed and without waiting for a reply carried her across the marketplace in the direction of the Portal.

  1:05

  The JAD, NoirVille

  The Demi-Monde: 85th Day of Summer, 1005

  The MANdate states, ‘His HimPerial Majesty Shaka Zulu views with favour the establishment in NoirVille of a national home for the nuJu people, and will use his best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this objective, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of the existing Shade communities. In return the nuJu people will provide NoirVille, on an exclusive basis, with such quantities of Aqua Benedicta as it may demand.’ The signing of this document paved the way for the establishment of the JAD … and for all the grief, hatred and violence that followed as a consequence.

  An Examination of the Political Situation in NoirVille: Chaim Wei
zmann, NuJu Publications

  Fortunately for Moynahan, the VV seemed more than a little shell-shocked by her close call with death, that is if her lack of protest about being taken to the Portal was any indication. She hadn’t struggled when he’d taken her up in his arms – trying to ignore the delightful sensation of her near-naked body against his as he did so – and barged his way through the bemused crowd. Such was the chaos caused by the attack that no one gave him so much as a second glance; Moynahan’s problems started when he carried her inside the Portal and up the stairs to Captain Simmons’ office.

  ‘Are you out of your fucking mind, Moynahan?’ snarled Simmons when Moynahan had gabbled out his explanation and, with the help of Sergeant Edelstein, laid the girl out on the captain’s couch. ‘That’s a VV you’ve got there and VVs can spot that we’re Real Worlders.’

  ‘Yeah, I understand that, Captain, but the alternative was to put a bullet through her head and I kinda baulked at doing that. I’m a soldier not a hitman.’

  Simmons scowled, but then in Moynahan’s experience small men always scowled a lot, presumably because if they couldn’t be tough then they could at least try to look tough. ‘You sure she didn’t have time to alert the IRGON to the location of the Portal?’ the prick whined.

  Moynahan shook his head. ‘Nah. The two guards she was jawing with were reduced to Jell-O by the bomb.’

  Simmons was silent for a moment, sitting behind his desk nervously wringing his hands as though he was having trouble deciding what to do next. ‘Look, Moynahan, she’s only a Dupe … she’s not a real person. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Moynahan knew that all right, but the big problem he had was in believing it. During his time in the Demi-Monde he’d only interfaced with Dupes when he’d gone to the market to buy food for the platoon. Sure, the market-women had been disconcertingly real and very flirtatious – the dame running the meat stall was always winking at him and making suggestions that they get jinky – but this was the first time he’d actually got up close and personal with a Dupe. And the remembrance of the VV’s deliciously soft and yielding body had been very unsettling. She sure as hell hadn’t felt like a piece of digital make-believe.