Fall

by Rod Rees

  He took a glance at the girl laid out unconscious on the captain’s couch, her robe wafting over her body like red mist. He especially liked the way her right leg was uncovered. That really got his juices flowing. The VV was a real looker, with the emphasis on real.

  The captain broke through Moynahan’s daydreaming. ‘What I want you to do, Moynahan, is just take her out back and …’ The order – suggestion – trailed off as though the captain was embarrassed about what he was saying.

  ‘You want me to off her?’

  ‘Well … yes.’ The captain smiled, ‘Look, Moynahan, Corporal Massie has just made it in from Paris by the skin of his teeth so the situation is a little tense. The last thing we need is a VV alerting the nuJus that there’s a Portal in the JAD.’

  ‘He didn’t find Norma Williams?’

  ‘No. Massie thinks the girl’s history. This mission is over, so I’m keeping the Portal open for another week … enough time for the other patrols to come in and then I’m going to cut bait. So this isn’t the moment to be taking risks and that VV is a risk.’

  ‘You’re gonna abandon Norma Williams?’ challenged Moynahan.

  Captain Simmons shuffled in his seat like he always did when his men put his feet against the fire. He hated being asked questions but unfortunately for him, with him and his sixteen-man platoon having been holed up cheek by jowl in the Portal for the best part of a year things had got a mite informal. Simmons might like to play the Great I Am but now it didn’t wash: the guys in the Platoon knew him for the dick he was and weren’t afraid to tell him so.

  ‘Not abandon, Moynahan. I’m making an executive decision to terminate the mission based on intelligence received. The last credible sighting there was of Norma Williams was when she was active in the Quartier Chaud. The intelligence Massie brought in was that she’s been abducted by agents of Empress Wu and the word on the streets is that once somebody is taken by Wu they don’t get untaken.’

  ‘But according to Massie there’s a rumour that she’d escaped and hightailed it to the Rookeries’ – this comment coming from Sergeant Edelstein, who, in Moynahan’s opinion, was a stand-up guy.

  ‘Just a rumour.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Look, Edelstein, I command here. This isn’t a debating society. And what I’m telling you is that Norma Williams is beyond rescue. I’m calling the mission off.’

  ‘Shit, Captain, we can’t just abandon Norma Williams,’ protested Edelstein. ‘Fuck it, she’s the President’s daughter!’

  ‘She’s the President’s dead daughter and as such our mission here is terminated. Now let’s just do our housekeeping and make sure that the VV doesn’t spill the beans.’ Simmons stood up from his desk, leant forward and gimleted Moynahan with a stare. ‘I’m ordering you to neutralise the VV.’

  Moynahan felt his temper rise. ‘And I’m telling you, Captain, to go fuck—’

  ‘Verily, good sirs, I am most able and willing to assist thee in thy endeavours to locate the wench Norma Williams.’

  *

  Sister Maria had feigned unconsciousness in the belief that if these Daemons thought she was hors de combat they might speak in an unguarded fashion. And she had been right.

  Of course, when the bomb had exploded, her senses had been addled and hence she had been unable to protest when the huge Daemon had carried her to his lair. But as she’d recovered her faculties, she’d come to realise that the Daemon did not wish to harm her and, as there might be more Shade terrorists trying to kill her, she decided to feign a swoon. The Daemon had, after all, saved her from death at the hands of that murderous Black Hand agent and he was very strong. So strong, in fact, that she had made the journey cradled in his arms and, as a result, had had a marvellous opportunity to study his aura in minute detail. And what she saw was both contradictory and perplexing.

  She had been taught in the Convent that Daemons were savage and brutal agents of Loki, sent by ABBA to test the resolve and faith of Demi-Mondians. Indeed every illustration she’d ever seen of these beasts from Hel had shown them as ugly – her Daemon was anything but ugly – with horns – her Daemon had no horns, his head being covered by a dashing mane of blond hair – and smelling of brimstone. Oh, her Daemon did smell but not of brimstone; rather he had a peculiarly pleasant and very masculine aroma.

  And if his outward appearance was at odds with the generally accepted image of Daemons, his aura was a revelation. Certainly there was the expected underlay of the choleric colours, the reds and the oranges, but all men had those, signalling that they were in thrall to their gender’s weakness of MALEvolence, and though these were brighter in her Daemon’s aura than was the norm, it was the streaks of gold that flecked his penumbra that showed him to be a good Daemon … an unusually good Daemon. He was an honourable Daemon, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Admittedly, there were oddities, of which the abnormally large halo of passionate purple that surrounded his crotch – indicating that he was a Daemon who took a great interest in the pleasures of the flesh – was the most prominent.

  She decided not to think about this nor to dwell on the hardness of his body as he held her to him. She was a Visual Virgin and as such was only able to engage in fiduciary sex; to partake of physical union with a man would mean her powers as an Auralist being severely compromised. Not that she would ever wish to speculate about what it would be like to couple with such a big, strong, handsome Daemon like the one carrying her. That would be unthinkable.

  To Maria’s dismay, it took a great deal of effort not to think about it, but she finally managed to turn her thoughts to other matters, notably that this accidental meeting with a Daemon could be turned to her advantage. After all, Norma Williams, who the convent was seeking so earnestly, was also a Daemon …

  She heard the Daemon shout, ‘Stand down, it’s me, Moynahan,’ as he pushed his way into the lair of the Daemons and then carried her up a flight of stairs. As she felt herself being laid – quite tenderly – onto a couch, she fluttered her eyes open for the briefest of moments and then mimed anguish, writhing for an instant as though in pain, and managing as she did so to free one of her legs from the confines of her robe. A very fine leg too, long and shapely, which would serve as a distraction and make the men – there were two other men in the room besides Moynahan – less willing to harm her. One of the lessons taught by Sister Agnes in her Arm’s-Length Seduction class was that men thinking with their loins rather than their minds were not really thinking at all.

  Feigning unconsciousness, she listened carefully as she was discussed by the Daemons. She quickly realised that she was in danger: the man she assumed was the leader of the Daemons and who was sitting in a very self-important manner behind the desk seemed determined to have her executed. Even through half-open eyes she could tell that he was monumentally unsure of himself, terrified of the situation he found himself in – the yellow haze of cowardice surrounding his body clock attested to that – and could be easily panicked into killing her. Weak men always acted impulsively. There was also the green of duplicity tainting his aura, which showed him to be a man of secrets. He was most certainly not one to be trusted.

  The conversation between him and Moynahan went back and forth … and then the name of Norma Williams was mentioned.

  It took enormous self-control for her not to start when she heard the girl being discussed. Norma Williams was the True Messiah and the Sacred Order of Visual Virgins had dedicated themselves to finding and protecting her, an ambition thwarted by the girl’s abduction by Empress Wu. But now, perhaps, with the help of these Daemons, this ABBA-ordained task could be fulfilled.

  It was when she heard the leader – the one called ‘Captain’ – order Moynahan to take her outside and shoot her that she realised the time for play-acting was over. She sat up. ‘Verily, good sirs, I am most able and willing to assist thee in thy endeavours to locate the wench Norma Williams.’

  *

  The three Daemons turned towards her
, their faces and their auras showing their surprise.

  ‘What?’ spluttered the captain, as he reached for the revolver resting on the desk.

  Be careful, Maria, the Sister counselled herself, this Daemon is most assuredly afeared of thee.

  She smiled and positioned herself so that more than a hint of bosom was displayed. As she had anticipated, the three Daemons were momentarily distracted by her charms and hence all thought of doing something precipitous was driven from their minds. They were, after all, male Daemons and hence easily manipulated by the arts of a woman.

  ‘I speak true, good Captain. I have secret intelligences as to the whereabouts of the Daemon known as Norma Williams.’

  ‘And why would a Visual Virgin like you want to help us?’

  To ensure that thou dost not act as a numbskull and send me somewhat prematurely to meet with ABBA, but Maria decided to leave this thought unvoiced.

  ‘All the Sisters numbered amongst the adepts of the Sacred and All-Seeing Convent of Visual Virgins have taken an oath, good Captain, on pain of never receiving ABBAsolution, to bend their will to the securing and safe keeping of Norma Williams, she who is most blessed in the sight of ABBA.’

  The captain was obviously as stupid as he was spineless and seemed not to understand what she had said. It was left to the burly man to Moynahan’s left – the one he had called ‘Sergeant’ – to take up the conversation.

  ‘Blessed in the sight of ABBA, Miss … er.’

  ‘I am Sister Maria, Near-Senior Maiden in the Convent, and as for your question, good Sergeant, Norma Williams is the Messiah sent by ABBA to lead the people of the Demi-Monde through Ragnarok and to salvation.’

  ‘Norma Williams?’ The sergeant frowned. ‘Are we talking about the same Norma Williams? The girl we were sent here to find sure as hell weren’t no Messiah.’ He tapped a finger on a picture pinned up on the wall. It was a picture of Norma Williams, though not as she had been described to Maria: the girl in the picture had jet-black hair and many strange and unpleasant piercings in her face.

  ‘It is indeed a portrait of the girl Norma Williams, though I wouldst make full admission that here in the Demi-Monde she doth not sport adornments most foul to her lips, nostril and eyebrows.’

  The three men looked at one another and then the captain asked the question Maria had been waiting for. ‘So how will you be able to help us find the girl?’

  ‘We in the Convent have most subtle and diverse means of discovering secret and esoteric intelligences and have had reports from an agent in the ForthRight that Norma Williams has been observèd attending a music hall in the Rookeries.’

  ‘And who did the observing?’

  ‘Percy Bysshe Shelley.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Moynahan, ‘don’t you remember the briefing we were given back in Fort Jackson? Some of the Zip messages sent by Norma Williams before she disappeared into the Demi-Monde said something about a “Shelley”.’

  The captain frowned. ‘So what are you proposing, Sister Maria?’

  ‘Have little doubt that Percy Shelley can lead thee to Norma Williams, good Captain, but only I have the skill to persuade him to aid thee in this endeavour. He is a fugitive from Heydrich and hence is much afeared for his freedom and his life. Percy Shelley will fly if approached by those he does not know and trust.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I will take thee to him.’

  ‘Right. And the first opportunity you get you’re going to betray us to the IRGON.’

  ‘Verily, sir, I think only of the preservation of Norma Williams, to which I am oath-bound. I pledge most sincerely that I will most diligently perform the task I have set before thee.’

  ‘We gotta do this, Captain,’ insisted Edelstein. ‘INTRADOC’s gonna get real pissed if we give this chance of finding Norma Williams the go-by.’

  Although Maria did not know who INTRADOC was, the name seemed to have resonance with the captain. For long seconds he sat behind his desk frozen by indecision. ‘Okay,’ he said finally, ‘but the question is who do we send to the Rookeries with you? Massie knows the territory—’

  ‘Massie’s a little beaten up, Captain,’ observed Edelstein. ‘I don’t think his nerves would stand another tour in the outside.’

  ‘I’ll go, Captain,’ said Moynahan.

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Moynahan’s our resident expert on Dupe patois and slang, Captain. Shit, he’s even doing a graduate course in linguistics.’

  ‘That right, Moynahan?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I want to write a book about the linguistic development in the Demi-Monde when I get out of the army.’

  ‘But still—’

  ‘If I might be so bold, sir,’ interrupted Maria. ‘Racially, this man Moynahan is most perfectly suited to an expedition to the Rookeries. He is tall and blond and blue-eyed, the very epitome of Aryan manhood. Should he be possessèd of all suitable warrants, he would pass most readily into the ForthRight.’ And that proved to be the clinching argument.

  1:06

  London, the Rookeries

  The Demi-Monde: 88th Day of Summer, 1005

  PigeonGram sent by Sister Maria on the 88th day of Summer, 1005

  Maria was amazed by the strange and wondrous engines housed in the building the Daemons called ‘the Portal’, engines which made light work of counterfeiting a new passport for her. Equipped with her new papers, and a money belt stuffed with guineas, Miss Maria Steele – as her passport now called her – and her escort, Moynahan, had little difficulty getting out of the JAD. The Shades guarding the gates giving access through the JAD wall were notoriously corrupt so it was simply a question of elevating the bribe to a level even the most honest of guards was unable to refuse. Once through the Wall, the pair headed west towards the Yangtze River, and on reaching it bought their way onto a barge heading for the Wheel. Here the captain switched registration papers and the pennant flying on the vessel’s stern: it might have been the barge Forever HimPerialism they had boarded in Delhi but it was the barge UnFunDaMentalism Forever that sailed into the London Docks.

  They had only been in the Normalist safe house for an hour when a note was pushed under the door of Maria’s room. ‘It is by the hand of George Villiers, a most loyal and courageous proponent of Normalism here in the Rookeries. In it he doth say—’

  ‘Look, Maria—’

  ‘Verily, thou shouldst be in no doubt, Corporal Moynahan, that my good title is Sister Maria!’

  ‘Not here in the Rookeries it ain’t. Here you’re just plain Maria and you can stop calling me Corporal Moynahan too. From now on I’m Dean.’

  ‘Such sudden familiarity is impossible. To call thee Dean—’

  ‘And cut out all this Shakespearean crap too. All them “thees” and “thous” are gonna get us pegged as badniks quicker than a goose shits beans.’

  Maria scowled at Moynahan’s profanity but finally, reluctantly, she nodded her agreement. ‘Very well … Dean. I will accede to thy … to your request. But to return to the note written by George Villiers, wherein he advises that Percy Shelley came to him two days ago seeking money. They agreed that this would be delivered to Shelley tonight, when he attends an establishment run by a Mrs Mary Jeffries.’

  ‘Establishment?’

  Maria smiled impishly. ‘Mrs Jeffries is proprietess of the most fashionable brothel in the whole of the Rookeries.’

  ‘A brothel? I find it odd that an UnFunDaMentalist-inclined ForthRight would allow a brothel to operate.’

  A chuckle from Maria. ‘UnFunDaMentalism is a very flexible religion, Dean, which may be bent or twisted to suit the needs – carnal or otherwise – of the ForthRight’s leaders. Whilst its leaders might condemn the man in the street for his sexual indiscretions, they rationalise their own on the grounds that everyday morality does not apply to them. Leaders, most oft, have feet – and other appendages – of clay.’

  Moynahan nodded. ‘So, tonight we must go to Mrs Jeffries’ house.’


  ‘Yes … and to do that you must act the part of a gentleman and I … the part of a whore.’

  ‘A whore?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maria airily. ‘Respectable women are not welcome in a brothel. But do not concern yourself, Dean, I won’t be reduced to vapours by such a prospect. UnFunDaMentalists refer to Auralists such as myself as “Whorealists”, believing we are but one step removed from prostitutes, therefore there are few better equipped than a Visual Virgin to play a harlot.’ She smiled. ‘But I believe you will find the part you have to play more challenging than mine. Although you are fine of form and well made, Dean, you are a man somewhat indifferent of fashion. Your suit announces you to be a ruffian and ruffians are not favoured by Mrs Jeffries. She only permits those from the very cream of ForthRight society to frequent her establishment. Therefore, Dean, you must be remodelled. We have the afternoon to transform you into a gentleman.’ Maria gave a mournful shake of her head. ‘I fear it will not be long enough.’

  *

  Four hours and five hundred guineas later, Moynahan gazed into his dressing mirror and struggled to recognise himself. Just who was this exquisitely dressed, coiffed and perfumed man who announced himself to be Dean Moynahan, gentleman?

  A gentleman who looked like a fucking idiot.

  His domed top hat, fashioned from black satin, was an instant too tall; the cream cravat at his throat was a mite too frothy; and his beautifully cut suit – black with the most subtle of pale grey stripes – was a shade too tight for comfort. That the ensemble was enriched by a scattering of silver jewellery and a pair of black boots encased in spats meant that it teetered on the brink of the ridiculous.