by Rod Rees
—AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY: A PEACENIX’S ASSESSMENT OF THE HUMAN, ECONOMIC AND SOCIAL COSTS OF THE TROUBLES, WILLIAM PENN, WARSAW UNDERGROUND PRESS
It took a few moments for Trixie to pull herself together.
The realization that with every passing second the steam-limo was trundling her ever further from the life she had enjoyed in Dashwood Manor and toward an uncertain and dangerous future was an unsettling one. And that, coupled with the chilling thought that she might never see her beloved father again, meant that she sat silent and pensive in a corner of the steam-limo’s cabin.
She took a surreptitious look at her companions. They were a strange bunch. In the driver’s seat was the huge and intimidating Sergeant Wysochi and sitting next to him, cradling a rifle on his lap, was a very nervous Captain Dabrowski. The Daemon was huddled in the opposite corner of the steamer’s cabin, looking very unhappy and very piqued by everything that had happened. Beside the Daemon sat the two people Trixie hadn’t yet been introduced to: the rather dashing young man with the long brown hair, and the Shade dressed in a most inappropriate and very revealing costume. These two, she guessed, were the psychic and his assistant, the PsyChick, who had been performing for the Leader. What they were doing involved in this little escapade, Trixie had no idea. It was an ill-met group and, as she was to discover, a particularly fractious one.
The problem, she decided later, was that there had been just too many would-be leaders in the steam-limo, just too many people who were determined to get their own way. The arguing began even before they had put a mile between themselves and Dashwood Manor.
“We have perhaps ten minutes before the Checkya realize what’s happened and semaphore an alert to all the CheckyaPoints in the ForthRight,” advised Dabrowski as the steamer puffed and panted its way onto one of the Sector’s new autobahns. “We’ll abandon this steamer maybe a mile from the Rhine, walk from there to the river and then bribe our way across the Oberbaum Bridge. That’s the quickest way to the Ghetto.”
Although she was too lost in her worries about her father to take much of an interest in what was being said, even a distracted Trixie bridled a little at Captain Dabrowski’s rather arrogant assumption that he was in command of their group. It appeared that she wasn’t the only one.
“That’s the quickest way to the Lubyanka if you choose the wrong Militia officer to try to dash,” grumbled the long-haired man. “I’ll handle the bribing. It needs to be done with finesse: the Militia are sensitive about people leaving the ForthRight and entering Warsaw.”
“We’re going to the Warsaw Sector?” asked the Daemon.
“Of course,” replied Dabrowski curtly. “Every Checkya officer in the ForthRight will be out looking for us. Warsaw is the only safe haven within striking distance.”
Safe? wondered Trixie. In her book the Ghetto didn’t qualify as a place where you went to be safe.
“Is the nearest Portal in Warsaw?” the Daemon asked the Shade.
How does the Daemon know the Shade?
It was the first time Trixie had been in close proximity to a Shade and she didn’t like it. Everything she had been taught informed her that they were not to be trusted. Shades were the spawn of Lilith.
The black girl, who was struggling to get into the coat she had been offered by the tall psychic, shrugged a reply. “There isn’t a Portal in Warsaw, Norma . . .”
Norma? How did the Shade know the Daemon’s human alias? And what is this thing they called a “Portal”?
“Then why are we going there?” the Daemon snapped. “Are you stupid or something?”
The Shade glowered at the Daemon. “Okay, Norma, we’re all a little uptight, so I’m gonna cut you a little slack and ignore that ‘stupid’ jibe. And for your information the only working Portal in the whole of the Demi-Monde is in NoirVille, but right now—”
“NoirVille? Well, that’s where we’ve got to go,” the Daemon announced, and then leaned forward and tapped Dabrowski on the shoulder. “I’d be obliged, Captain, if you would order your driver to head for NoirVille.”
“No,” he replied firmly. “We’ve got to get to the Ghetto. I’ve got to warn my people about the impending attack by the SS.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” snapped the Daemon. “The only thing of any importance is getting me to NoirVille.”
“We’re going to the Ghetto,” answered Dabrowski, introducing a distinct note of finality into his reply. “The lives of three million people are at stake.”
The Daemon studied Dabrowski for a moment as though trying to establish whether he was being serious. “This is ludicrous. I’m not going to argue the toss with a Dupe. Stop this steamer right now, Captain. My . . . colleague”—the Daemon shot a sneering look at the Shade—“and I will get out and make our own way to NoirVille from here.”
Colleague? How could the Daemon be a “colleague” of the Shade?
White people didn’t have Shades as colleagues, they had them as slaves, and even then only if they couldn’t afford Chink slaves.
The tall man was persuaded to rejoin the conversation. “We haven’t had a chance to be formally introduced, young lady. My name is Colonel Vanka Maykov, Licensed Psychic, and I’m the man who just helped rescue you from Crowley.” He offered his hand, but the Daemon petulantly shrugged it aside. “Well, young lady, if you won’t take my hand, maybe you’ll take some advice. The captain’s right: with the Checkya on our heels the only place to hide is the Ghetto. And as for NoirVille . . . well, I’ve a feeling that as you’ve got no papers and no money that makes getting there by yourself virtually impossible. And while I don’t give a damn about you or your welfare, I do care a great deal about my friend Miss Thomas, here.”
Has everyone gone mad? How could an Aryan announce that he has a Shade as his “friend”? It isn’t natural.
“Right now,” Vanka went on as he pulled out his cigarette case, “there’ll be semaphore messages batting back and forth across the ForthRight warning every CheckyaPoint to be on the lookout for a girl who looks a lot like Aaliz Heydrich . . .”
Trixie gawped; the Daemon did look like Aaliz Heydrich. She was amazed she hadn’t noticed the resemblance before. If the Daemon had blond hair instead of black and fewer of those terrible facial mutilations it would be the girl’s twin! It must have been the bruise on the side of her face that had foxed her.
“ . . . a girl who may or may not be traveling in the company of a Shade.” The man stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, Ella . . . a girl of color.”
The man actually apologized to the Shade!
“Don’t worry about it, Vanka,” said the Shade, twitching her head in the direction of the Daemon, “I’ve got bigger problems than a little low-rent racism.”
“The upshot is, young lady—”
“For your information, my name is Norma Williams,” the Daemon said with a haughty shake of her head.
“Very well. The upshot is, Miss Williams, if you get out of this steamer, you get out alone. I’m not letting Ella here sacrifice herself because of your pigheadedness. We’ve saved you once but I wouldn’t bank on us being around to save you again.”
“But I’ve got to get to NoirVille,” the Daemon persisted. She glared at Vanka as he lit a cigarette. “And I’d appreciate it, Colonel, if you didn’t smoke.”
Vanka ignored the Daemon and blew smoke up toward the roof of the steamer. “And I’d prefer it if you did a little more thinking and a little less demanding.”
“I think we should take Vanka’s advice, Norma,” the Shade said in a conciliatory tone.
“I don’t need you to do my thinking for me, thanks very much,” snapped Norma.
The Shade bridled. “Don’t play the high-handed, high-and-mighty president’s daughter with me, honey. And I’ll do whatever thinking is necessary to get us out of here. It wasn’t me who got my ass caught in a sling.”
“Don’t call me ‘honey,’ ” Norma snarled.
“I’ll call you anything I damn w
ell want.”
Trixie couldn’t stand it any longer. “Please, please, can we stop this squabbling? Whether we like it or not, we’re all in this together. Perhaps we should start by introducing ourselves?” There were no protests, so Trixie decided to start the ball rolling. She pulled the cap off her head and shook out her mane of blond hair. “I am Lady Trixiebell Dashwood—”
“I think you can forget the ‘Lady’ bit,” sneered Norma. “After tonight’s little set-to I don’t think your father’s going to be doing much lording about in the future. In fact, I don’t think he’s gonna have much of a future.”
A stunned silence descended on the group, everyone shocked by the Daemon’s crass indifference to Trixie’s feelings. Trixie felt her cheeks going red with anger. “That, Daemon, was unnecessary. My father treated you with respect and I would be obliged if you would do the same.” One day, Trixie resolved, she’d make the Daemon pay for that insult.
“That was an incredibly cruel thing to say,” the Shade said quietly.
Norma was totally unabashed. “Oh, come on, baby, get with the program . . . the computer program. These are Dupes, they don’t have real emotions.”
“For your information, Miss Williams,” Dabrowski snapped, obviously as outraged as all of them by the Daemon’s vulgar behavior, “Comrade Commissar Dashwood helped to organize your escape this evening, help which has probably cost that brave man his life. So I would be obliged if, despite your obvious antipathy toward us ‘Dupes,’ you show some respect for Miss Dashwood’s feelings.”
There was another unpleasant silence.
“What’s a Dupe?” asked Vanka.
“It’s what Daemons call people who live in the Demi-Monde,” answered Dabrowski. “That’s what Miss Williams called us this afternoon when Miss Dashwood and I overheard a conversation between her and Reinhard Heydrich.”
“What else did you hear, Captain?” asked Vanka.
“That the SS are planning to attack Warsaw in the next few days.”
“And that’s where we’re escaping to?” sneered Norma. “Oh, well done, Captain, but don’t you find the words ‘frying pan’ and ‘fire’ springing to mind?” With a disparaging laugh the girl turned to look out of the window at the scenery streaming past the steamer.
“Is that why you were hanging around outside the manor?” asked Vanka.
Dabrowski nodded. “Miss Dashwood and I were waiting for a signal to make our own escape. Your somewhat unconventional arrival was simply a coincidence—a happy coincidence. Without the presence of mind of the Daemon—”
A searing look from Norma Williams.
“—of Miss Williams, and, of course, her uncanny resemblance to Aaliz Heydrich, we would not have been able to commandeer this steamer.” Dabrowski held out his hand. “I am Jan Dabrowski, until ten minutes ago captain of the GoldenFolk Regiment attached to the First Division of the ForthRight Army. I have also the honor to be a major in the Warsaw Free Army.”
Vanka took Dabrowski’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Major. I am Colonel Vanka Maykov, late of the Fifth Revolutionary Regiment of Foot. And this is my friend and PsyChick, Miss Ella Thomas.” The Shade, this Ella Thomas, offered her hand and Trixie was quite amazed to see Dabrowski take it without even the slightest hesitation. Presumably being brought up in the Ghetto deadened a gentleman’s sensibilities to matters of racial etiquette, that is if a Pole like Dabrowski could ever be truly regarded as a gentleman.
Indeed, such was her amazement that before she quite knew what she was doing she had also shaken the Shade’s hand. She masked a shudder.
Dabrowski looked at the Shade cautiously. “If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Thomas, just what part of the Demi-Monde are you from? I don’t seem to recognize your accent. It doesn’t sound NoirVillian.”
Without turning away from her study of the nightscape flashing by outside the steamer’s windows, Norma gave a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, Miss Ella Thomas, why don’t you tell them where you’re really from? That should raise a laugh.”
With a despairing sigh the Shade answered. “Like Norma, I’m from the Real World, from what you call the Spirit World.”
“You’re a Daemon!” gasped an astonished Vanka. “So that’s why you’re such a good medium. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Vanka, but it’s hardly something I could drop lightly into the conversation, now, is it? If you’d known I was a Daemon, you’d never have hired me.”
Trixie was astonished. A few days ago she had been firmly of the RaTionalist belief that there were no such things as Daemons and now she seemed to be surrounded by the bloody things.
“So let me get this straight,” said an equally bemused-looking Dabrowski, as his eyes danced back and forth between the Shade and Norma Williams, “you two are both Daemons.”
“Correct,” said Norma, “although I’m not big on being called a ‘Daemon.’ ”
“Then what are you doing here in the Demi-Monde?”
The Daemons looked at one another, and reluctantly Norma gave an answer. “Ella’s here to help me get back home, to get back to the Real World. I was lured here by Aleister Crowley and Aaliz Heydrich.”
“Why?” asked Vanka, who still seemed to be reeling from the revelation of his PsyChick’s Daemonhood.
Norma sighed. “It’s a long and difficult story. Let’s just say that I’m the daughter of someone very important in the Real World and Heydrich believed that by having me brought here to the Demi-Monde, he could exert some control over my father. It’s a simple blackmail scam.”
“It would appear from what I heard this afternoon,” added Dabrowski, “that there was some danger of the Daemons ‘pulling the plug,’ as Miss Williams called it, on the Demi-Monde, of destroying our world. Heydrich had Miss Williams brought here as a hostage to prevent this happening.”
Norma shook her head vigorously and looked imploringly around the little group. “Look . . . guys . . . there’s no chance of that. I can guarantee that no one is pulling the plug on this little holiday haven of yours. No one in the Real World wants to harm the Demi-Monde . . . no one wants to shut it down . . .”
Dabrowski wasn’t so easily convinced. “I think it might be better to keep you close, Miss Williams, until we establish the truth of that last statement.”
“Guys . . . it’s imperative I get out of the Demi-Monde. Heydrich wants my place in the Real World to be taken by his daughter.”
Now it was the Shade’s turn to be shocked. “Heydrich’s going to substitute his daughter for you in the Real World? But why?”
Norma gave a rueful smile. “Heydrich’s sentient. He knows all about his previous existence in the Real World. He wants to get back there, to finish what the Nazis started eighty or so years ago.”
“Jesus, I thought that bastard looked at me sideways when he saw me dancing tonight. He must have recognized me.”
For a minute or two everyone in the steamer’s cabin fell quiet, each of them lost in their own thoughts. It was Vanka who broke the silence. “Okay,” he said wearily, “I’m getting a little confused here, but I have a suspicion that we might be missing the point. Surely the important thing, right now, is for us to avoid being captured by the Checkya. Call me a man of limited ambition but all I’m currently interested in is making sure Beria doesn’t have the opportunity to play Billy the Butcher on my body. So can we forget about all this nonsense about ‘Portals’ and ‘Dupes’ and suchlike, and just concentrate on getting safely to the Ghetto?”
“But I’ve got to get to NoirVille,” persisted Norma.
“You should listen to Vanka, Norma,” the Shade said. “As of now we don’t have a prayer of getting to NoirVille on our own. I figure our only hope of surviving will be to haul ass to the Warsaw Ghetto and then make a move to NoirVille when the heat has died down.”
Norma appeared less than happy with what her fellow Daemon was saying, but any further protests were silenced when Wysochi turned around and addressed Dabrowski. “Loo
ks like the Checkya have barricaded the road ’bout a half-mile ahead, sir. It might be a good time to start walking.”
THE JOURNEY TO THE WARSAW GHETTO WAS ONE THAT ELLA WOULD rather forget. It was snowing heavily and without Vanka’s coat she would have frozen to death long before they got to the Rhine. As it was, the series of heart-stopping dodges and scuttles out of London and through the backstreets of Berlin that Vanka deemed necessary to throw off the Checkya was enough to leave her tired, cold and very, very frightened.
All the euphoria of actually pulling off the rescue had long since dissipated; now all she wanted was to get somewhere warm and preferably away from the ungrateful bitch limping and whining along behind her. Norma Williams had turned out to be a world-class complainer.
As Dabrowski had suspected, semaphore messages had already alerted the Checkya to be on the lookout for the escapees so when they finally got to the Oberbaum Bridge—the bridge that spanned the Rhine and linked Warsaw and Berlin—they found that it had been sealed off by the SS. No one was leaving the Berlin Sector for Warsaw without their papers being very carefully scrutinized. And Vanka pronounced the SS–Ordo Templi Aryanis to be “unbribable.”
They made it across the river in a boat rowed by a man who valued money more than his life. It was a scary, nerve-racking twenty minutes spent edging across the Rhine shrouded in the shadows cast by the bridge, sneaking in and out of the lumps of ice drifting along the near-frozen river and thanking the Spirits that the snowstorm that was blanketing the Demi-Monde had become even heavier. It was an unpleasant boat ride but, thankfully, they made it.
