by Rod Rees
‘Then I suppose the quicker I go, the quicker I can return.’
*
Aaliz found herself being driven to the Bole Institute for the Advancement of History in Los Angeles, a grand and imposing mansion set in large and precisely manicured grounds, the whole estate protected by high walls and swarms of surveillanceBots. The reason for the intensity of security became apparent when Aaliz was ushered into a large windowless room situated in the very centre of the mansion.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Aaliz. I am Metztil, Guardian of Professor Bole.’
Aaliz felt her mouth drop open. The girl who greeted her was, unless she was very much mistaken, a Grigori … a vampyre. She was so tall that the top of her head almost brushed the ceiling but it wasn’t just her height that made this Metztil so remarkable, rather that she had a muscularity to match her size, a muscularity presented in the most obvious manner by the dress she was wearing. It was a gown modelled on Grecian lines and made from a dusky-blue silk that moulded itself to her body, simultaneously displaying her strength and power and revealing the tattoos of snakes rendered in red ink that coiled and twisted around the alabaster-white skin of her arms.
The girl moved towards Aaliz, all glinting eyes – cat’s eyes – and steely smile, her bare feet silent on the carpeted floor. Nearer now, Aaliz could see just how pale the girl’s skin was: it was luminescent, almost albino. Metztil held out a hand to Aaliz, who had to force herself to take it, reluctant – afraid – to place her hand in that bone-crushing paw.
‘I am pleased to meet with you, Miss Aaliz,’ the Grigori intoned as she shook the hand. ‘I am honoured to be of service to the one who is doing so much to ensure the triumph of the Grigori.’
‘The pleasure is entirely mine,’ Aaliz replied automatically as she toyed with the phrase ‘the triumph of the Grigori’. Bole had never mentioned his association with them.
‘If you would come with me.’ Without waiting for a reply Metztil led Aaliz towards the staircase.
As she climbed the stairs, Aaliz struggled with the realisation that Bole was in league with the Grigori. But now, she decided, wasn’t the time to worry about this. She was shown into a small room, equipped with a black couch and an array of electrical equipment. ‘This is ParaDigm’s private Transfer Suite. If you would undress and shower in the cubicle next door …’
Aaliz did as she was asked and even managed to contain her astonishment when the Grigori proceeded to shave her body – all her body – and then to equip her with what she called a TIS, which enveloped her body in a thin layer of shiny black material. ‘If you would lie on the couch, Miss Aaliz, then I will complete the Transfer Procedure.’
*
Immediately she woke Aaliz realised that there was one other thing that Bole had failed to tell her: the nuns caring for her body in the Demi-Monde didn’t have access to the technology available in the Real World. The result was that the state her body was in when she reclaimed it was less than perfect. The nuns had done their best: her body had been turned hourly to prevent bedsores; all her limbs had been regularly flexed to obviate the contraction of tendons and the weakening of her muscles; and her intravenous feeding had been expertly supervised. But the fact remained that the body had not been used in over half a year and the deterioration was noticeable.
The upshot was that when Aaliz woke in Wewelsburg Castle all she could feel was a nagging collection of aches and pains that seemed to be coming from every part of her body. But worst of all, she felt so very weak. Having always prided herself on her athleticism, it came as a shock to discover that now she couldn’t sit up unaided, that even raising an arm required a conscious effort and her attempts to stand were defeated by her legs buckling under her.
‘It will take time, Lady Aaliz,’ said the doctor attending her. ‘You have been in a coma for six months and therefore you must reacquaint your body and your muscles with the effort of working. I have a programme of exercises, and this, coupled with a healthy diet, will see you back to normal in a matter of months.’
‘Months! I do not have months, you fool.’ Aaliz tried to stand by clinging on to the neck of one of the nuns. ‘You have one week. In one week I must be capable of walking unaided onto a stage.’
‘One week, Lady Aaliz? But that is impossible—’
‘It is not impossible,’ said Aaliz’s father, Great Leader Heydrich, as he walked into the room. ‘It is of vital importance to me, to UnFunDaMentalism and to the ForthRight that my daughter is able to begin her public duties with the minimum of delay.’ Heydrich’s close-set eyes seemed to bore into the doctor. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Doctor?’
The doctor bowed his head. ‘Yes, Great Leader.’
1:20
The JAD, NoirVille
7th Day of Fall, 1005
The verse in the HIM Book which states that Man was created in ABBA’s image has stimulated much theological debate regarding the ideal form and shape of Man. It is a vital part of the HimPerialist catechism that if Man is to aspire to be like ABBA then Man must emulate ABBA’s physical perfection. It is believed that this ‘perfection’ may only be achieved by strenuous exercise, and hence Body Forming has now been incorporated into the Rites of the Church of HimPerialism. Men are encouraged to spend at least one hour per day in physical worship of ABBA, being called to exercise in the HIMnasium by MuscleMen.
A Fool’s Guide to HimPerialism: Selim the Grim, Bust Your Conk Publications
They made it. Sure, they’d gotten real lucky that their attempt to cross into the JAD had coincided with the explosion in the hotel, but the result was that, just seven days after her performance at the Crystal Palace, Norma found herself standing outside the Portal. She could hardly believe it; after nine months of struggling and striving she had arrived at her goal. Escape beckoned. But as she stood on the pavement studying the Portal, she had to admit to being seriously underwhelmed.
She’d always imagined that the Portal would be housed somewhere a little more upmarket and high-tech than in a run-down warehouse at the end of a narrow street flanked by squalid tenements in a backwater part of the JAD. But then, when she thought about it, it made sense. The last thing the US Army would want was to stand out, to be noticed. And if concealment was their objective, they had certainly succeeded.
‘Okay,’ said Moynahan, pointing to the side door of the warehouse, the one signed ‘Private: Employees Only’, ‘I’ll go first. The Captain’s a mite skittish and six people hammering on the door at dawn might make him a little trigger-happy.’
With that he bounced up the steps and began working the brass knocker. It took almost a minute before Moynahan’s hammering was answered.
‘Who’s making all that racket?’ came a voice from behind the door.
‘It’s me, Sergeant … Moynahan.’
‘Shit!’
There was the sound of a key being turned in a lock and then the door eased open to reveal a big man cradling a very purposeful-looking machine pistol in his arms. ‘Fuck me gently, Moynahan, I never thought I’d see you again.’ He looked over Moynahan’s shoulder at the gang crowded on the doorstep. ‘And it looks like you brought half the fucking Rookeries back with you.’ The sergeant shook his head even as he waved them all inside. ‘Gotta tell you, Moynahan, the Captain ain’t gonna be overpleased with this. You know what standing orders say about bringing Dupes to the Portal.’
‘Fuck standing orders, Sarge,’ interrupted Moynahan as he shouldered his way into the hallway. ‘These guys and gals are the ones who made it possible for me to find Norma Williams.’
Knowing a cue when she heard one, Norma pulled back the veil covering her face and gave the sergeant a broad smile. He did a double take.
‘Jeez, Moynahan, you found Norma Williams!’ The sergeant thrust out a hand. ‘Welcome to the Portal, Miss Williams. I’m Senior Sergeant Sol Edelstein and I’m mighty glad to see you safe and well. Gotta say I had a real problem recognising you in that burqa. You’d better come through a
nd meet the captain. He’s gonna have trouble believing this.’
Edelstein was right: Captain Simmons had big trouble believing it. Sitting at his desk listening to Moynahan relate his story of how he had found Norma and how they had escaped the Rookeries, all he seemed able to do was shake his head and whisper the occasional ‘amazing’. He kept sneaking nervous glances at Norma as though he was having difficulty accepting that it was the President’s daughter standing in his office.
If she’d been asked, Norma would have admitted to not liking the captain, but then she’d always had problems relating to people she found physically unattractive and with his plump lips, his cloudy brown eyes and his greyish-yellow complexion the captain was the epitome of unattractive. Worse, by her reckoning, Simmons was a guy who kept his cards real close to his pigeon chest. She wouldn’t trust him an inch.
But unattractive and creepy though he was, Norma had to admit that once he had been apprised of the situation and her bona fides had been biometrically verified, the man became all business. He insisted that the Portal’s medic give her the once-over and then ordered Sergeant Edelstein to make sure his other ‘guests’ were served breakfast.
‘Let’s get everyone fed and watered,’ he announced. ‘And while you’re all doing that, I’ll contact INTRADOC HQ back in the Real World and see how they want to play this.’
He gave Norma a smile. Maybe, she decided, she’d been wrong about him.
‘That’s great, Captain, but before you do that I think you should be aware of a wrinkle in your plan, a wrinkle called Aaliz Heydrich …’
*
Thirty minutes later Captain Simmons appeared in the Portal’s Rec Room to make an announcement to the assembled platoon. ‘As you’ll all know by now, Moynahan has managed to bring Miss Norma Williams to the Portal.’ There was a round of applause and a few catcalls, which Moynahan acknowledged with a nonchalant wave of his hand. ‘I’ve spoken to General Zieliéski, the officer commanding the Demi-Monde project, and naturally he’s delighted that Miss Williams has made it to the Portal. And now she’s here, he’s determined that our mission is over.’ More cheers. ‘Yes, I’m as glad as you are to be going home. My orders are that I power up the Transfer Unit and accompany Miss Williams back to the Real World with the rest of you following on a two-by-two basis. We’ll all be back home for lunch!’
When the whooping and hollering had quietened down, Norma raised her hand. ‘I don’t quite understand, Captain. Surely for me to return to the Real World I must have a body to return to, and as I understand it, my body is currently being used by Aaliz Heydrich.’
‘Not any more, Miss Williams. Following my conversation with the general, I’ve received an eyeMail confirming the arrest of Miss Heydrich. Even as we speak, she’s being transported to INTRADOC headquarters, where she will be transferred back to the Demi-Monde. It’ll take the Portal’s Transfer Unit four hours to get up to full power and by then your body will be waiting for you unharmed and unoccupied in Fort Jackson.’
Norma frowned. ‘Are you sure, Captain?’ It all sounded much too pat, much too easy. ‘But what about Septimus Bole? He must be in cahoots with Aaliz, after all it was him who got me involved in the Demi-Monde in the first place.’
‘Don’t worry, Miss Williams. Septimus Bole has also been arrested. As I say, everything is set fair for you to return to the Real World.’
The captain seemed so confident that Norma was persuaded to relax. Maybe getting home was going to be this easy, maybe after nine months of running, dodging and being shot at it would be just a matter of stepping into the Portal’s Transfer Room and waving goodbye to the Demi-Monde. But the peculiar thing was that now she was on the brink of leaving the place, she felt hugely sad. Leaving people like Burlesque and Odette would be a real wrench and the thought that she would never have a chance of saying goodbye to Vanka Maykov was a heart-stopper. And then there was Percy Shelley …
*
Odette could tell by the way he was gnawing at his fingernails that Burlesque wasn’t happy, but then, she supposed, it wasn’t every day that you got to commune with Daemons. Not, of course, that they looked very much different from Demi-Mondians – just a little bit smaller and paler – but they were Daemons and their lair was every bit as Daemonic as the writers of horror stories had speculated it would be. Inside the warehouse the Portal was chillingly functional: the walls were painted a drab cream colour, the floor covering was cold and hard, and the furniture was very utilitarian.
But it did, at least, seem very sturdy. Moynahan had given them what he called ‘the ten-cent tour’ and from what Odette had seen the Portal had been built to take an awful lot of punishment. The armoury, the Control Room and the mysterious place called the Transfer Room were all below ground level, which was remarkable given that she had always been taught that the Demi-Monde’s Mantle-ite crust precluded digging deeper than five feet. It seemed that some of the certainties pertaining to the Demi-Monde didn’t apply in the Portal.
Burlesque gave a burp. ‘Do you fink they’ve got any Solution in ’ere?’ he asked, sotto voce, as they sat drinking coffee in what the Daemons called the Rec Room. ‘’Cos iffn they ’aven’t …’ He trailed off, not feeling it necessary to elucidate that after two days without blood Demi-Mondians were apt to get a little antsy.
‘I ’ave spoken with Norma, mon chéri, and she ’as spoken to Monsieur Edelstein, ’oo informs ’er that these Daemons ’ave the supplies most plentiful of the blood.’
‘Good, ’cos I’ve got to tell yous, Oddie, iffn I ’ave to drink any more ov this muck they call coffee, me digestives ain’t never gonna be the same again. Turning me over sumfink chronic it is.’ He leant forward so that his mouth was only an inch or so from Odette’s ear. ‘So, waddya fink ov these Daemons? Rum lot, ain’t they?’
Odette took a quick look around at the Daemons eating at nearby tables. They did indeed seem a rum lot. ‘I think eet is of the greatest fortune that they are leaving the Demi-Monde, Burlesque, as I am of the greatest doubts that they would be able to offer the protection most effective to Norma. Although Moynahan and Edelstein are well made, the rest … pahhh … they are just mauviettes … ’ow do you say? … wimps.’
‘Yeah, ’specially that captain cove. Wouldn’t trust ’im as far as I could throw ’im.’
‘Mais oui. You ’ave, as always, Burlesque, the nail struck on the ’ead: ’ee is a man mostly suspicious. Therefore I think it is of the greatest urgency that we remain ’ere in the Portal until we are mostly certain that Norma ’as been returned to ’er world.’
*
Norma went in search of Shelley. She had to speak with him before she left the Demi-Monde. She had to know why he had done what he’d done. When she eventually tracked him down he was sitting alone on a couch in a corner of the Portal’s canteen, communing with a cup of coffee. Gathering up a sandwich, she sat herself down beside him and gave him a bleak smile.
Shelley looked up and returned the smile. ‘Ah, my sweet Norma. Love wepulsed but now weturneth.’
Norma couldn’t stop herself. ‘Why did you betray me, Percy?’ she blurted out.
‘I betwayed you, sweet Norma, because I was betwayed by my own ambition. You know I am a pale student of the unhallowed arts, so you might understand that when I was appwoached by Cwowley with pwomises of unseemly power and knowledge of the esotewic I listened hard. He whispered that he would initiate me into the Ordo Templi Awyanis, make me pwivy to the stwange secwets that would allow me to discover my Twue Self and discard the bourgeois twappings of the material world. And the pwice Cwowley demanded for this subtle education was, so I believed, a nothing: I was to make you love me.’
Norma brushed a tear from her eye. ‘And in that, Percy Shelley, you certainly succeeded.’
‘I am so sowwy, Norma, for the hurt I caused you. But then I was not the only one seduced by Cwowley’s mystique. If I wemember awight, the weason you came to the Demi-Monde was to search for the man and his magic.’
What Shelley said was true: it had been Norma’s obsession with Crowley that had persuaded her to enter the Demi-Monde. It was faintly embarrassing for her to remember that her three dissertations at the Institute for the Advancement of History had been entitled ‘Aleister Crowley and His Influence on Twentieth-Century Western Morality’, ‘Occultism and Its Role in the Sexual Liberation of Women’ and ‘Philosophical Libertarianism as a Key to Sexual Enlightenment’. Now, of course, she knew that Crowley was a fraud and a braggart, and that wading through the depths of Crowleyan philosophy would barely get her feet damp, but then …
Then she had just been a naïf, a goth with a penchant for the occult, and that had been the carrot Aaliz Heydrich – aided and abetted by Septimus Bole – had dangled in front of her, enticing her to play a seemingly innocuous computer game called The Demi-Monde. Enter the Demi-Monde, they had said, and you can meet with Crowley face to face. And once she was in the Demi-Monde, there had been no going back … literally, no going back.
‘And in my defence,’ Shelley continued, ‘I was told you were a flibbertigibbet, a girl who had as careless an attitude to womance and love as my own. Of course this was wong, and in serving Cwowley’s evil my spiwit was twice ensnared: once by his villainy and once by my love for you.’
‘Oh, come on, Percy, you never really loved me.’
‘I will admit that when I first met you I believed myself immune to Cupid’s darts and to the blandishments of Venus. Until I met you, deawest Norma, I held the opinion that love acts upon the soul pwecisely as a nutmeg gwater acts upon a nutmeg. But now …’ He took Norma’s hand in his and squeezed. ‘I am lost in a labywinth of wegwet, in a maze of distempered dweams. I love you, Norma. Thou art mine and I am thine, till the sinking of the world. I am thine and thou art mine, till in wuined death is hurled.’
Looking into Shelley’s doleful eyes, Norma tried to deny what he was saying, tried to deny what she felt. She wanted so very much to believe that Shelley loved her, but still the thought nagged that he had made her a victim.
