by Rod Rees
“No, that is a wholly ForthRight initiative. Comrade Leader Heydrich is of the opinion that railway lines connecting Hub Bridge Number Two and Hub Bridge Number Four will enable the ForthRight to open up the economic potential of the Hub.”
“I thought the nanoBites precluded anything being built in the Hub.”
Trixie decided to join in the conversation. “My father has developed a novel means of laying railway tracks on ‘floating’ sleepers so that no part of their construction ever goes below six inches and hence they are immune to nanoBite attack. It’s very clever.”
“But won’t the lines also enable the ForthRight to make war on the Coven? Won’t they make it easier for the ForthRight to maneuver its soldiers?”
The comrade commissar stood up from the table. “You seem determined to malign the motives of the Great Leader, Miss Williams. I think that is enough political chitchat for one day. Young ladies should not, in my opinion, concern themselves regarding the machinations of the ForthRight’s leadership. I am confident that, as ever, Comrade Leader Heydrich is intent on leading the ForthRight in a manner consistent with the needs and aspirations of his people.”
Trixie smiled. Her father was a great man. No one else she knew would be able to announce such twaddle and still be able to keep a straight face.
Chapter 19
The Demi-Monde: 47th Day of Winter, 1004
As Aryans are largely of superior Pre-Folk stock they have evolved more rapidly and further than the UnderMentionable races. This, in turn, has caused their more primitive instincts (of which sexual desire is one) to wither. Eugenical science (see Francis Galton: Eugenics: The Final Solution) informs us that as a race evolves, these primitive powers—so readily seen in the instinctive behavior of animals—atrophy because they are no longer necessary to enhance the survival of the species. That is why UnderMentionables (especially Shades, who are considered the most primitive of all the races of the Demi-Monde) excel in such fields as athletics, dancing, WhoDoo and in all matters of the flesh, these Lilithian abilities being known as Atavistic Animal Talents.
—WHY SHADES RUN SO FAST: A STUDY IN ATAVISTIC ANATOMY, NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, FORTHRIGHT PUBLICATIONS
Despite what he’d told Sergeant Stone, Vanka wasn’t staying at the Metropolitan Hotel. Actually he was camped out in a couple of rooms provided, at an eye-watering rent, by Burlesque. Anonymity didn’t come cheap.
It was in truth a pretty miserable pair of rooms, positioned in the attic of a pretty miserable house located down a pretty miserable backstreet just around the corner from the depressingly miserable Prancing Pig. The rooms were also dark and cold. Dark because a number of the glass panes in the windows were broken and had been replaced by plywood, and cold because the putty had fallen out from around the remaining panes, allowing the frigid winter wind to whistle in.
Ella was sure it was colder in the rooms than outside in the street.
Vanka was totally unapologetic. “You’ve got the couch in the living room,” he said, pointing to the lumpy sofa resting in front of the fireplace. “If you get cold at night . . .”
Here it comes, thought Ella, this is when he hits on me.
But he didn’t.
“ . . . you can light the fire but you’ll have to lump your own coal up from the coal cellar.”
As Vanka went on with his description of their domestic arrangements, Ella didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
“You empty your own pan.” He used the toe of his boot to nudge a rust-stained bedpan in Ella’s direction. At least she hoped it was rust. “If the Checkya come calling then it’s out of the window and over the rooftops. Under this veneer of wood the front door’s got a solid steel core.” He gave the door a hefty kick and it hardly quivered. “It’s strong enough to give us a ten-minute head start. Other than that my only advice is for you to stay in the rooms as much as possible. We don’t want the neighbors complaining about Zulus moving in and giving the district a bad name, now, do we?”
Fortunately for Vanka, Ella sensed he was being sarcastic.
It seemed straightforward enough, but after a couple of days’ confinement she began to feel herself going a little stir-crazy. Her worries about the Checkya gave way to nagging doubts about her ability to find Norma Williams. She had a sneaking feeling that hiding out in a couple of slum rooms wasn’t the ideal solution to that particular problem.
It was all very discouraging but this, the seventh day of her self-imprisonment, seemed to promise a break in the boring routine she had settled into: Vanka had taken an interest in cooking and had been laboring over the stove all morning. Unfortunately whatever it was he was cooking up was horribly noisome.
“What’s that smell, Vanka?” she asked warily, not quite certain if she wanted an answer.
“Which smell?”
Ella was just about to give a pointed riposte when she realized that it was, in fact, a pertinent question. There were any number of repulsive smells competing for her attention and it was an indication of how adapted she was becoming to life in the Demi-Monde that now the odors of damp, of urine, of boiling cabbage, of overflowing drains and of horse shit that were wafting up from the streets below warranted hardly a mention. No, what unsettled her was the new and distinctly chemical fragrance drifting from a cooking pot resting on a table at the back of the room.
“That chemical smell. You’re not cooking up crack, are you?”
“What’s crack?” Vanka asked. Then, following the direction in which her nose was pointing, he realized what she was talking about. “Oh, that. I’m making the luminous paint I use in manufacturing my ectoplasm.”
Now it was Ella’s turn to play the naïf. “What’s ectoplasm?”
“The magical stuff that forms around mediums when they go into a trance. No good psychic can perform without being able to materialize oodles of ectoplasm.” The look on her face persuaded Vanka to expand his explanation. “When mediums are in communion with the Spirit World they produce a luminous aura which the audience at a séance can see glowing in the dark. Ectoplasm signals that the medium is at one with the Spirit World, that they have been possessed by their Spirit Guide.”
“Can you do that, Vanka?”
“I’m surprised at you, Miss Thomas. Of course I can’t, but then no one can. Ectoplasm, like everything else to do with Spiritualism, is total and utter bollocks. Unfortunately ectoplasm has become so famous that if customers at a séance don’t see it drifting around they start asking for their money back.”
“So how do you make it?”
He looked at her suspiciously; the recipe for ectoplasm was obviously one of his trade secrets. “It’s simple really. You cut the heads off a boxful of matches and drop them into a pan of water, which you bring up to a gentle simmer. The phosphorus dissolves off the match heads, and if you give the solution a good stir, the phosphorus mixes in with the water. All you do then is strain off the match stems and, hey presto, there you have it: phosphorescent paint. If you soak a couple of lengths of calico in that and let them dry you’ll find that they glow yellow in the dark. Wave the calico around in a séance and everybody goes away happy.”
“But surely people aren’t fooled by a bit of luminous cloth? Don’t you have customers grabbing at it?”
Vanka gave a derisive laugh. “What you’ve got to understand, Miss Thomas, is that people go to séances in a frame of mind that makes them want to believe in the supernatural. The last thing they want is to come away disappointed; they want to experience something special, to feel something marvelous has happened, and if that involves them mentally turning a blind eye to the grubby reality of everyday magic, then so be it. As a psychic all I’ve got to do is to give them the chance to convince themselves, to let their own desperation to believe persuade them to ignore the crudity of it all.”
“That seems a little cynical.”
“Possibly because I am a little cynical.” Vanka paused to light one of his foul French cigarettes. �
��No, that’s wrong: I’m very cynical. And regarding your other well-made point about people making a grab for the ectoplasm, that’s why, at the beginning of the séance, I always tell my audience that to make contact with the Spirit World we need to have all joined hands and hence to be physically and spiritually united with one another. Then I go on to say that anyone deliberately breaking the circle will bring the wrath of the Spirits down on their head. That’s usually enough to stop even the bravest punter from letting go of their partner’s hand.”
“So you rely on the customers convincing themselves that what they are seeing at one of your séances really is magic.”
Vanka warmed his hands by the fire. “Exactly. But it is magic in a way, in that I cast a spell over the audience. And it’s the same when I do cold readings, when I make predictions about people without having met them before. At any individual reading I might make twenty educated guesses about a subject and eighteen of them will be wrong, but what the customer goes home remembering are the two I guessed right. It’s called ‘selective memory.’ ”
“And it really works?”
“Let me show you; I’ve got to begin your training as a PsyChick sometime and now’s as good a time as any.” He sat down next to Ella on the couch. “I want you to pretend you’ve come to me for a psychic reading.”
Ella nodded but kept as much space between her and Vanka as the couch allowed. The man was a rascal and she was determined to keep their relationship strictly professional. After all was said and done he was just a Dupe, even if he was a particularly handsome Dupe.
Stop it, Ella; the man’s a Dupe, if that isn’t a contradiction in terms.
Vanka’s soft voice brought her out of her daydream. “As I’m a psychic who specializes in contacting the dead, in all probability you’ll have come to consult with me because someone close to you has recently died. Now, even before I ask you a question I know a lot about you: you’re young, attractive, well dressed, well spoken and you’re not wearing a wedding ring or an engagement ring.”
“So what?”
“Think about it. At your time of life, Miss Thomas, probably the only people whose death would warrant a consultation with a psychic would be your father, your mother or a sweetheart. In the case of a girl as young as you I’d put my money on your coming to see me to contact the Spirit of a boy who died in the Troubles.”
“Okay, that seems reasonable but how would you find out for sure?”
“I’d ask.”
“But you’re meant to be the psychic.”
“Just bear with me a moment. When I do a reading I always ask the client to place their hands in mine.” Vanka took Ella’s hands gently in his. She tried as best she could to still the tremor of excitement she felt as his fingers closed on hers. It was difficult to keep reminding herself that he was just a computer-generated Dupe. “I can tell immediately that you’re well-to-do.”
“How?”
“No calluses.”
“You haven’t got any either.”
“I’m allergic to hard work, Miss Thomas, just as I’m allergic to girls who keep interrupting me.”
Ella took the hint and kept quiet.
“But there’s more to holding your hands than that. When a person is being asked questions or is listening to statements being made about themselves or their loved ones their body reacts. These aren’t deliberate reactions but automatic—autonomic—reactions the client is often unaware that they are making. Often these reactions, these telltales, are almost undetectable but with practice a good cold reader can spot them. Do you want to try?”
“Sure.”
“May I call you Ella while I ask my questions? It’s a little less formal.”
“You may.” She was pleased by this development, though she immediately worried that her reaction had been communicated to Vanka.
“Good. So if you were here to have me contact a ‘dear departed,’ I’d probably start with a general statement, something like ‘I see a man in a red jacket.’ ”
“Why a red jacket?”
He gave her an odd, quizzical look. “Because all soldiers in the ForthRight army wear red coats. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Ella.”
She tried to mask her annoyance at making such a silly mistake. PINC had already told her that.
“I’d immediately follow this up with the question ‘Does this signify anything to you?’ You see, if my guess is correct you’re amazed at my perspicacity and if it isn’t, well . . . I’ll just frown and move on. Shall we see if it works with you?”
“Why not?”
“So . . . I can see an older person in your life, Ella, someone who is directing you: a mother, a father, a teacher, a professor . . .” He smiled. “Eureka: I got the most subtle of flinches from your fingers when I mentioned the word ‘professor,’ so that encourages me to pursue that line of questioning. I sense, Ella, that sometimes your relationship with your professor isn’t all that it should be.”
“Whose relationship with their professor is ever perfect?”
“True, true. But the message I am receiving is that you are very unhappy with what he has asked you to do. You feel as though he’s put you in danger.”
Try as she might, she couldn’t quell the start she gave in reaction to the word “danger.”
“Now that is a positive reaction. So you feel endangered because of what your professor has asked you to do?”
Alarm bells started to sound. He was finding out too much about her. “Look, I’m really not comfortable with this.”
“I’m just trying to show you how cold reading works, Ella,” he said in an oh-so-reasonable voice. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. Maybe if I just ask a few, more specific questions. After all, I know very little about you and we are going to be partners. Where shall I start? Tell me, which part of the Yank Sector are you from?”
“Why do you think I’m a Yank?”
“Your accent for one, the way you use your fork when you eat for another. The trouble is, you’re a Shade.”
“I don’t like the word ‘Shade,’ it’s demeaning.”
He laughed. “I can tell. So what should I call you: darkie, black, sambo, coon, nigger—”
“Stop! I’m a woman of color.”
“Very well: the trouble is I’ve never met a Yank woman of color before. You’re a real enigma, Ella, you look like you’re a NoirVillian but you sound like you come from Washington.”
For an instant she didn’t quite know what to answer. Fortunately PINC cut in and her faux life history flashed before her. “I was born in NoirVille but adopted by a Yank couple. I was brought up in Fairmont Heights.”
“Interesting,” murmured Vanka as he caressed her fingers between his. It was really quite distracting. “So your family must have been caught up in the Troubles. There was some vicious fighting in and around Washington.”
“I’m an orphan. My adoptive family died when I was a baby.”
“Of course.”
Ella ignored the sarcasm. “I went to school in London during the Troubles.”
“But you never lost your Yank accent?”
“No.”
“It must be difficult to be a Yank and a Shade amongst the Anglos. The Yanks were the most fervent of all the Royalists; they were the last to surrender to the Party during the Troubles. As I understood it the Anglos hate the Yanks and animosities in the ForthRight die hard. And as for how Anglos view Shades . . . sorry, people of color . . .”
“London had its moments, but I’ve never had any real problems.”
“Until a few days ago when you had your little contretemps with the Checkya.”
She shrugged.
“Why are you so interested in Daemons, Ella?”
“I’m not!”
“Then why did you tear out that article about them from yesterday’s Stormer?”
Cursing herself for leaving the newspaper lying around, Ella pulled her hands away from Vanka’s and glowered at him.
He selected another cigarette, lit it and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “That’s something else you’ll need to understand about doing cold readings: lies are almost invariably signaled by a pause before they are made. Even the most accomplished of liars needs a moment to get their lies in order before they answer. You have been lying to me, Ella.” He flicked some ash into the fire. “As I say, you’re an enigma. You’re a woman of color, born in NoirVille but adopted by Yanks who had the distinct lack of consideration to die when you were a baby. You’re a fashionable girl brought up in fashionable London but who didn’t adopt a fashionable Anglo accent. You went to a school in London when I know for a fact that none of them would ever accept a Sha—a girl of color as a pupil. And yet, having been brought up in London, you are still unaware that ForthRight soldiers wear red coats. You have a professor who you are more than a little frightened of and who you believe has placed you in danger. You have a peculiar interest in Daemons but you want to keep that interest a secret. You don’t believe in Spiritualism but you are the only true clairvoyant I’ve ever met. And, last but not least, you are being pursued by the Checkya. What an enigma you are, Ella, what an enigma you are.”
“You’ve just got a very suspicious mind, Vanka.”
“Suspicious, perhaps, but being a suspicious bastard has kept me alive when some truly horrible people have been determined to kill me.” He held up a hand to still her protests. “Look, young lady, I don’t know who you are but one thing I am certain of is that what you have just told me is a pack of lies. I’ve a real suspicion that you’re bad news, so let’s cut to the chase. I’ve been thinking about you a lot these last few days and my feeling is that you’re a crypto working for NoirVille. Am I right?”
Ella hesitated. It was impossible to admit who and what she really was, but she sensed that unless he got something approximating to a believable explanation Vanka might, just might, throw her out onto the streets. But with a man as sharp as he was . . .
“Okay,” she said finally. “I admit it: I’m a crypto, here in the ForthRight on a mission to rescue a Daemon who has been abducted by Aleister Crowley and take her to NoirVille.”
