by Rod Rees
As always, Salah-ad-Din’s calm and considered demeanour effectively countered the Mufti’s bombast, so much so that Pobedonostsev was obliged to intervene. ‘I bow to General Salah-ad-Din’s expertise in matters culinary, but my belief is that the nuJus have ambitions which exceed the boundaries of the JAD. We have a cuckoo in our midst, gentlemen, a nuJu cuckoo that wishes to eject us from our land. And once they have achieved this, our people’s bellies will rumble as never before.’
The HimPeror was roused to ask another question. ‘And what are these ambitions?’
‘To take our Sector away from us! NuJu legends speak of NoirVille once being theirs and it is the possession of the entire Sector that they covet. They even refer to it as the Promised Land.’
‘Promised by whom?’
‘According to the nuJus, by ABBA.’
‘Then ABBA has been something of an absentee landlord for the last one thousand years,’ observed Ashoka drily. ‘Nobody – not even the nuJus – can seriously make claim to a piece of the Demi-Monde based on such an antique remembrance.’
‘The nuJus can and do, Caliph Ashoka,’ answered Pobedonostsev firmly. ‘There are many legends and myths contained in the nuJu Book of Profits that would have us believe that the nuJus were once a great and a powerful people, much favoured by ABBA. They even refer to themselves as the Chosen People, and this PreFall empire of the nuJus was, again according to the Book of Profits, based in NoirVille. By their lights the nuJus have a claim to all the lands of NoirVille.’
Ashoka chuckled and then shook his head. ‘Nonsense. Surely, Grand Vizier, you have not brought this Council together to discuss fairy tales. All the MANdate promised was that we would provide a home for the nuJus in exchange for the Aqua Benedicta. That is fact, not fable.’
With a smile Pobedonostsev nodded. ‘You are correct, Caliph Ashoka, the MANdate did promise a “natural home for the nuJu people”, but the nuJus have wilfully interpreted this as a promise to grant them permission to set up a permanent, independent state within the borders of NoirVille. Our generosity of spirit has been churlishly taken advantage of. NuJus have flooded into the JAD. Two million nuJus now see the JAD as their “natural home”, but I repeat, “a natural home” is not the same as an independent nuJu state. The nuJus must realise that the dead bones of their ancestors cannot be exhumed and restored to life and for that reason the JAD is and will ever remain an integral part of the Shade world.’
‘But how can so many nuJus live in such a confined area?’ asked a frowning Xolandi. Having been brought up inside the Royal Kraal, it seemed the new HimPeror was having trouble coming to terms with the cramped living conditions the nuJus endured.
‘They did it by evicting the Shade population they found there, Your Majesty,’ explained Pobedonostsev.
‘Not “evicting”, Grand Vizier: they bought the land …’
‘Again you are correct, Caliph Ashoka, they did buy the land, bribing the local Shakes in order to do so. But what you fail to mention is what they did when they had ownership of the land. They pushed out the fellahin who had been living and working there for generations, and created a mass of homeless, unemployed and destitute Shades for the rest of NoirVille to deal with.’ Pobedonostsev turned to Xolandi. ‘So you see, Your Majesty, the quasi-state that is the JAD has been established only by the gravest trespass upon the “civil and religious rights of existing Shade communities” which the nuJus, in the MANdate, were obliged to respect.’
The Grand Mufti couldn’t resist adding his two pennyworth. ‘The Grand Vizier is right, the nuJus have behaved shamefully. But this is a lesson for all Shades: there is no space in NoirVille for two races or two religions … it is impossible to put two swords in a single sheath. And what is worse, the presence of the nuJus has begun to corrupt our Sector. A great many woeMen have run to the JAD to avoid marrying the Man chosen for them by their father and there have been mutterings that some females are aping their nuJu sisters and refusing to follow the teachings of SubMISSiveness. Even a single nuJu is the rotten apple that, when placed in a box of good apples, will cause them all to moulder and become putrid.’
Once again Ashoka tried to placate the Mufti. ‘Oh come now, Your Reverence, this is hysterical talk. The nuJus have been polite and dutiful guests in our Sector—’
‘Guests! The nuJus do not see themselves as guests. These bastard nuJus will not rest until NoirVille is under the control of a nuJu government.’
‘Ridiculous. It is just envious hearsay and gossip. There is no proof of this.’
‘Oh, but there is, Caliph Ashoka.’ And here Pobedonostsev tossed a leather-bound folder onto the table. ‘As you all know, I had my cryptos penetrate the innermost council of the nuJus, where they stole this, a copy of The Protocols of the Sages of nuJuism and of the Most Ancient and All-Seeing Order of Kohanim, the secret minutes of the Supreme Council of nuJus. These Protocols tell us that the grand design of the nuJus is to use the JAD as a stepping stone to dispossess us of our Sector, this the first move towards their ambition of Demi-Monde-wide domination. Reading the Protocols, we learn we are fighting an organized, educated, devious and evil people whose aim is to concentrate the world’s wealth and power in their hands. As the Protocols tell us, their aim is to corrupt the morality of every Sector of the Demi-Monde, and by doing so destroy all religions by promoting the venomously atheistic creed of RaTionalism, itself a product of that intellectual charlatan of a nuJu, Karl Marx. They plan to rob the people of their property, to steal their money by usury and persuade them to reject the teachings of ABBA.’
‘And we should not forget that the Protocols also say that the nuJus have pledged to destroy the Sphinx and all temples and HIMnasia dedicated to HimPerialism,’ added the Grand Mufti eagerly.
Ashoka tried again. ‘But how can this be? By granting NoirVille the use of Aqua Benedicta the nuJus have made NoirVille pre-eminent in blood trading … they have made NoirVille the richest of all Sectors.’
Surprisingly, it was Dingiswayo – never the most voluble of men – who now entered the debate. ‘Such is the nuJus’ cunning that they have bribed us into forgetting what vermin they truly are. Aqua Benedicta is their baksheesh. For myself I would prefer NoirVille to remain poor and desolate if the alternative is collaboration with the nuJus. The nuJus are contemptuous of us, believing that their money can buy the souls of the Shades, but in this they are mistaken. Shades are a proud people, who will never, even for an instant, permit themselves to forget that the nuJus are a race apart. We have a duty to stand against their perfidy and we must do this not just for ourselves, not just for NoirVille but for the whole of the Demi-Monde. The nuJus are evil personified.’
Pobedonostsev realised that this was the moment to administer the coup de grâce. ‘And surely the nuJus’ most venal act was their sponsoring of the assassination of their greatest benefactor, Shaka Zulu.’
‘You are certain, Grand Vizier,’ Xolandi demanded, ‘that the nuJus were the ones who connived to have Shaka Zulu assassinated?’
‘The Protocols are very specific on this point, Your Majesty. They state that “The Zealots will be provided with every assistance, whether financial, technical or moral, in order that that pagan overlord Shaka Zulu may be expeditiously eliminated.”’
‘Bastards,’ muttered Dingiswayo, ‘dirty, stinking bastards.’
Excellent, mused Pobedonostsev. It was always easier to unite people behind a common hatred than a shared loyalty.
‘But why would the nuJus do such a thing?’ protested Ashoka. ‘Shaka was their friend!’
‘Read the Protocols, Caliph Ashoka, read where it says, “The death of Shaka Zulu will throw NoirVille into chaos. The Crown Prince, Xolandi, is a cowardly boy, with no stomach for battle. Bereft of strong leadership, NoirVille will descend into chaos and this will give us the opportunity to complete our conquest of the Sector.”’
On hearing himself being described as a coward Xolandi flinched back as though struck. Then through
pursed lips he addressed the Mufti. ‘What do you suggest, Grand Vizier?’
‘That we declare a jihad,’ Pobedonostsev answered, ‘that our HimPis move to exterminate the nuJus and reclaim the JAD.’
‘Many NoirVillians will die,’ observed Ashoka quietly.
Dingiswayo smashed a huge fist down on the table. ‘Then they will die as martyrs to the true faith of HimPerialism and when they meet with ABBA they will wear smiles and possess satisfied souls. We will show these crafty, cunning nuJus we have not forgotten that kingdoms can only be built on dead bodies and the skulls of the fallen.’
Silence descended on the Council Chamber. Then Xolandi spoke. ‘You are very quiet, General Salah-ad-Din. Are we to be deprived of your counsel? Do you not agree that NoirVille should war with the JAD?’
Salah-ad-Din sighed, then turned towards his HimPeror. ‘War is a last resort, Your Majesty, and it is the duty of every general only to prosecute it when there is no alternative. The Anglos in the Rookeries have a saying: after every great war a Sector is left with three armies: one of cripples, one of the bereaved and one of the impoverished. I am anxious that this is not the case with NoirVille.’
‘But the Protocols … we have proof of the nuJus’ treachery.’
‘In war, Your Majesty, the first casualty is the truth. I am not convinced by these Protocols, they seem a little too … convenient. Caliph Dingiswayo calls the nuJus “crafty and cunning”, so are we seriously expected to add to this description the word “careless”? Are we expected to believe that the nuJus would be so negligent as to leave such an inflammatory document lying around where it might be taken by one of the Grand Vizier’s cryptos?’
Pobedonostsev bridled. ‘Are you calling me a liar, General Salah-ad-Din?’
‘Not at all, Grand Vizier, such a thought had never entered my head. I am shocked that you could ever think I would believe you to be anything other than the epitome of probity and loyalty.’
Pobedonostsev searched Salah-ad-Din’s face for irony but found none. The man was a supremely gifted actor.
‘No, I am minded to question who might have a motive for forging such a document, and the answer that occurs to me is the ForthRight.’
‘The ForthRight?’ squeaked Xolandi.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty; make no mistake, the subjugation of the JAD will be a difficult task and expensive in both men and materiel. It will be a long, hard struggle and one which will deplete NoirVille’s coffers and leave us destitute. Would that not be the perfect time for the ForthRight to attack us, to take over our Sector and our monopoly of the blood trade?’ Salah-ad-Din picked up the file containing the Protocols and tossed it disdainfully back to Pobedonostsev. ‘No, I would need much greater provocation than this piece of make-believe before I would be persuaded to make war on the JAD.’
Pobedonostsev could see by the expressions on the faces of the men gathered around the table that Salah-ad-Din had carried the day. He bit his tongue, silently cursing the general for his interfering, but if he needed ‘greater provocation’ then that was what Pobedonostsev – in his guise of ‘Agent Neizvestnii’ – would provide.
1:16
The JAD, NoirVille
The Demi-Monde: 6th Day of Fall, 1005
Traduced by promises of gold and the favours of women, the Kohanim, the first of the nuJus, forsook the Second Commandment that forbade them to build graven images of ABBA and did rend and work Mantle-ite, of which they were the masters, into a form abhorrent to ABBA. The idol they created had the body of the lion, the wings of the eagle and the countenance of a man. This the Kohanim named the Sphinx. And ABBA, seeing what they had wrought, became angry and as punishment for their vile trespass took from them their ability to work Mantle-ite and cast them out of their HomeLand, condemning them and all their descendants to be rootless as the wind and to wander the Demi-Monde reviled and shunned by their fellow men.
The NuJu Book of Profits, Epistle 333
Being an agent un-provocateur, as Jude Iscariot had quickly come to realise, was an onerous occupation, and not a terribly rewarding one at that. The pay was shit, the hours ridiculous and the pain he would endure if he was discovered unappetising. But then he’d had preciously little to say in the matter. That bastard Gelbfisz had him firmly by the knackers: it was either serve as one of Gelbfisz’s cryptos or spend a year in jail for passing forged bankers’ drafts. In retrospect, the prospect of twelve months in Megiddo Prison now seemed quite enticing: playing undercover agent among the Zealots wasn’t Jude’s idea of sensible retirement planning.
Coward that he was, he had, of course, considered making a run for it, skedaddling out of the JAD to go into hiding in that place signposted ‘Somewhere Else’. But he’d prevaricated – making tough decisions wasn’t Jude’s forte – and now with the bloody Shvartses camped out around the Wall and all the crossings heavily patrolled he was stuck in the JAD. And in the JAD what Gelbfisz said was law … well, law for anyone except the Zealots, that is.
Yeah, the Zealots were mad and dangerous to boot, so it wasn’t a particularly happy Jude Iscariot who found himself sneaking along the Street of the Profits just after midnight, en route to a meeting with these lunatics, his somewhat downbeat mood not helped by the unseasonably hot weather. Since Fall had arrived, even at night the JAD was unbearably hot and humid, Jude hating the way it made his hair slick with sweat, his shirt stick to his back and his face damp with perspiration.
Absent-mindedly he hung a right down Gizza Avenue, dodging between the coils of barbed wire and the steamer-traps as he went. Gelbfisz might be doing everything he could to avoid war with the Shades but ever the one to play the percentages, he was preparing for it anyway. And for a man possessed of such an overwhelming aversion to violence as Jude, all this martial preparedness was a chilling reminder of what would happen if he was to fail in his mission to bring confusion to the Zealots.
The house Jude stopped in front of was swathed in darkness, not even the smallest shard of light squeezing through the shutters to indicate that there was life within. He rapped three sets of three knocks on the thick door and a moment later he heard the question ‘Who’s there?’ coming from inside the house. Jude knew who the woman’s voice belonged to, but revolutionary etiquette meant that he couldn’t show that he recognised it. It was all very childish.
‘I am here to meet those who would free my people and reclaim the Promised Land,’ Jude answered, reciting the passphrase in cod-seriousness.
‘Then, Comrade, you need the assistance of the Zealots to achieve such lofty ambitions.’ As the woman intoned the answering phrase, Jude heard bolts being shot and a key being turned in a heavy lock. Potty the Zealots might be, but they were cautiously potty. A second later the door opened just far enough for him to slip inside, Jude trying to stop himself gagging as he went, the house stinking of sweat, shit and festering dampness. As he struggled to come to terms with this olfactory onslaught and to prevent his supper making a return appearance, he wondered if it was obligatory for dissidents to live in shitholes.
The girl beckoned him deeper into the shithole, across a dark room and through another door into the small, gloomy kitchen beyond. Lit by a single oil lamp, there was barely enough light for Jude to make out the dozen or so men gathered around the table: this was the famous ‘kitchen cabinet’ that comprised the Zealots’ most senior officers.
Judas Maccabeus rose to greet him. This was the moment that Jude particularly loathed, the moment when these stinking and flea-infested maniacs made familiar with him, kissing him on his cheeks, slapping him on the back and shaking his hand, but, mindful of the role he was playing, Jude reciprocated their hugs and endearments, even going so far as to give little Vera – the girl who had let him into the house – a rather bold peck on the cheek. He knew enough about girls to have realised that she was a little sweet on big, bold and heroic Jude Iscariot, Zealot freedom fighter and nuJu patriot.
Hugging and kissing thankfully over, Jude took a seat at
the side of the table where the shadows were darkest. The persona he had adopted for his role as Zealot revolutionary was that of a simple, unassuming nonentity who avoided the deep and dense philosophical discussions regarding the future of the JAD and its people so beloved by the Zealots, who didn’t argue the virtues of RaTionalism and most certainly didn’t squabble and joust for leadership or recognition. He knew that he was quietly mocked by the intellectuals in the Zealots as a man who could recite the catechisms of revolution without understanding them, but this he saw as being all to the good: what he wanted was to be perceived as nothing more than a spear-carrier, a man easily forgotten and overlooked, a strong and steadfast – if not particularly bright – soldier of the revolution. The last thing Jude wanted was to be noticed. Cryptos who got noticed ended up in the gutter with a knife in their eye.
Once he was settled in his seat, Vera thrust a glass of tea into his hand, which he pushed to one side. He had no intention of drinking it: there were a lot of things he would do to stay out of Megiddo Prison, but contracting cholera wasn’t one of them. He unbuttoned his coat – the heat given out by so many sweating bodies packed into the windowless room produced an atmosphere that was threatening to overwhelm him – then sat back to let tonight’s performance unfold.
The mission that Gelbfisz had given him was simple enough: he was to spy on the Zealots to find out what they were planning as they attempted to disrupt the very fragile peace that existed between the JAD and NoirVille … and then to do his best to fuck up these plans. Fortunately, thus far all this involved him doing was sitting in a dark room, listening to belligerent claptrap and avoiding drinking the tea. The Zealots had done the rest. The rivalry between the several would-be leaders gathered around the table was so intense that they could never agree about anything. If Maccabeus suggested blowing up a Shade police station, Gideon Mannaseh was sure to ridicule it, and if Avraham Stern thought a raid on a Zulu arms depot was just the ticket, John Giscala could be relied on to veto it. The Zealots were emasculated by envy and ambition and the upshot was that they did a lot of talking, but fuck-all terrorising.
