by Rod Rees
Archie Clement had learned. He’d learned that the best way to beat the WFA was to grind them down, to exhaust them physically and emotionally, to pound them—day and night—with artillery fire. He had made Warsaw into one vast killing zone. The Warsaw Ghetto had become the apotheosis of Asymmetric Warfare.
The general, Ella decided, back in the comfort and safety of the Real World, must be so proud of his creation.
“Is there a Vanka Maykov in ’ere?”
Ella turned toward the door. There, silhouetted by the uncertain light cast by an oil lamp, stood a scrawny boy dressed in a tattered and torn SS jacket with a mud-splattered chapka set lopsidedly on his head.
“I’m Maykov,” called out Vanka. “And who might you be?”
The boy saluted. “I am Karol Michalski, senior sergeant in Trixie’s Terriers. I’ve got an order to escort you”—he checked a scruffy piece of paper he had in his hand—“an’ a Miss Ella Thomas an’ a Miss Norma Williams to headquarters to meet wiv the WFA Emergency Executive.”
Ella felt a tug on her sleeve. “Why are we being taken to headquarters?” Norma whispered, genuine terror in her voice. She had never come to terms with the fact that Heydrich had put a reward on her head. The lice hadn’t helped her peace of mind either.
“It’s all right. Vanka and I have an idea that might get us out of this muddle. Get your jacket. Soon, with a bit of luck, we’ll be able to say good-bye to Warsaw.”
That is, if Dabrowski buys into Vanka’s idea.
It was an idea he’d had while creeping around the ruins of Warsaw trying to hunt down a new source of cigarettes and had seen a poster flapping on the wall of what had once been a theatrical agency. The poster announced that as part of Beria’s policy of improving bilateral relations between the ForthRight and NoirVille, the Revue Nègre was to be performing in Berlin.
Ella hadn’t needed Vanka to explain to her what the Revue Nègre was; she regarded herself as the world’s biggest fan of Josephine Baker, the revue’s principal dancer. What had surprised her was that ABBA had duplicated her in the Demi-Monde. The professor hadn’t said anything about ABBA duplicating nice PreLived personalities in the Demi-Monde, only psychopaths and murderers. But that she supposed was a consequence of heuristic programming. ABBA was doing its own thing.
Ella had, however, needed Vanka to explain how the Revue Nègre could help in solving their problems. And when he did, she had to admit it was a clever plan, a plan that would allow them to kill three birds with one perfectly aimed stone: it would get urgently needed blood into Warsaw, it would persuade Dabrowski to help them escape from the Ghetto and it would provide an excellent way of smuggling her and Norma out of the ForthRight and into NoirVille. It was this plan that Vanka had pitched to Trixie Dashwood, who had, in turn, pitched it to Dabrowski.
Following the sergeant, Ella, Vanka and Norma crept slowly and cautiously out of the sanctuary of the cellar, to emerge, blinking like moles, in the morning light. Ella was aghast at the change war had wrought to the beautiful city of Warsaw. It looked as though some malevolent giant had trampled through the city stomping every building to rubble and leaving a trail of dead in his wake. Bodies littered the roads like obscene confetti, rats and crows picking at them. The stench of rotting corpses filled the air.
For ten heart-stopping minutes the four of them ducked and dived, scurried and scuttled through the shattered city. Finally, at the corner of what had once been a grand, opulent boulevard, Sergeant Michalski stopped.
“That’s it over there,” he said, pointing to a burned-out building. “That’s WFA headquarters. From ’ere on you’ve got to keep low. There are a lot of SS snipers around this district just waitin’ for a chance to blow yer head off.”
TRIXIE TOOK A SIP OF HER BLACK COFFEE AND SCOWLED. SHE HADN’T yet got used to the taste of the chicory they had started using to bulk out the fast-depleting reserves of coffee. But then, she mused, it wasn’t just coffee that was in short supply. Looking at Colonel Dabrowski, she had a feeling that hope was being rationed too. He looked a beaten man.
The report she had given him was bad news—that was why she’d insisted that only Delegate Trotsky be present when she made it—but she never imagined that Dabrowski would disintegrate as he had. The man was a nervous wreck.
Trixie took another sip of her coffee and another drag of her cigarette.
It was odd, she mused, how war altered people. Some, like Dabrowski, buckled under the pressure, while others, like herself, reveled in the slaughter and the chaos. In the twenty-one days they had been fighting she had changed. It had been twenty-one days during which she had ordered—demanded—that people die. Lots of people—young people, old people, brave people, frightened people . . . men, women and children. And all the time she had to stand firm and resolute; not for a moment could she seem weak or vulnerable. She had to be the rock to which all of her regiment’s hopes were anchored. That was her greatest victory: not the Battle of Oberbaum Bridge, not the Battle of Barricade Number 1. No, her greatest victory had been the conquering of her emotions. Emotions were for the weak.
She looked across to Dabrowski. He was weak, so weak he was coming unraveled before her eyes.
Her fingers itched against the holster of her Webley. The temptation to shoot the bastard was almost overwhelming.
Not now.
Not when she still had a chance to offer them hope. Not when she was still here to inject some steel into Dabrowski’s spine. Not now that she was Captain Dashwood. By the Spirits, Dabrowski had hated doing that: promoting a woman to command a regiment. But after the Battle of Barricade Number 1 it had been impossible for Dabrowski to refuse her; if he had, there would have been a real possibility of mutiny.
Dabrowski must have felt her examining him; he looked up, his blank, unfocused eyes searching her out in the gloom of the cellar. “Are you certain, Captain Dashwood?”
“Yes. The SS will take control of the Warsaw Blood Bank within the next four days.”
“But you’ve held them for so long.”
That was the problem. Dabrowski and the rest of them had gotten so used to Trixie’s regiment being able to repulse the SS that they’d taken it for granted that the Blood Bank was safe. Now they had to face reality. “We haven’t the heavy guns or the explosives to keep the SS at bay. We can hurl bodies at them but it won’t make any difference. Our fighters are exhausted and outgunned and we’re in danger of being encircled. If I don’t pull back I’ll lose the regiment.”
Dabrowski turned to Delegate Trotsky. “What are our supplies of blood like?”
Although it seemed barely possible, the old nuJu was even skinnier than he had been three weeks ago. Skinnier but still with the same resolute set to his long jaw.
By Trixie’s estimation, Trotsky had done a fine job in helping the WFA to fight for as long as it had. Famed for his incorruptibility, he had been unanimously elected as the man to administer Warsaw’s blood supply and this he had done fairly, making sure that the demands for a bigger ration made by the rich and the powerful were rebuffed. The other delegates hated him for his parsimony, but by carefully rationing each and every drop of blood Trotsky had kept Warsaw going longer than Trixie had ever thought possible. In a different life the man would have made a perfect RaTionalist.
Trotsky stroked his long beard before answering. “Not good. The warehouse where we held most of our blood reserves was hit by SS artillery a couple of days ago. We salvaged what we could.” He gave a disconsolate shrug. “By my calculations we have possibly a week’s supply . . . not more. With what we can withdraw from the Blood Bank before the SS take control, Warsaw has perhaps two weeks before its blood supplies are exhausted.”
Dabrowski dropped his head into his hands. For a moment Trixie thought he was crying. It was, she decided, a disgusting spectacle; leaders didn’t cry.
Finally Dabrowski raised his head and smiled resignedly. “So, Captain Dashwood, two weeks after the SS take the Warsaw Blood Bank we will a
ll be dying of blood starvation. Not a terribly noble end to our little rebellion.”
“I must demur,” said Trotsky quietly. “At least by fighting, we have shown that the ForthRight army and the SS aren’t unbeatable. At least the rest of the Demi-Monde knows that it’s possible to defeat these monsters. If a few thousand ill-trained and badly equipped partisans can fight the SS to a standstill then there must be hope for everybody—”
“A poor reward for the sacrifices made by the people of Warsaw,” interrupted Dabrowski. “And unfortunately without blood the conclusion is inescapable: we must surrender. We must end this carnage now. We have lost over twenty thousand of our best and our bravest to this war; our people have been pushed back to the Industrial Zone, where they cower in holes barely able to find enough food to survive; and now we all face death by blood starvation.” Dabrowski gave a dejected shake of his head. “All our glorious revolution has resulted in is death and misery. We should surrender while at least some of our people are still alive and throw ourselves at the mercy of the Leader.”
Trixie and Trotsky exchanged glances; the colonel’s defeatism seemed total. Didn’t he realize that Heydrich had no mercy?
“Eventually the other Sectors will come to our aid,” said the old nuJu. “We must give them time.”
Dabrowski smashed a fist onto his table. “We have no time! We cannot wait for help. And we cannot retreat, the Boundary Layer sees to that.” With a shaking hand he poured himself a glass of Solution. “No . . . we must surrender.”
“I think we might be able to organize a delivery of blood to Warsaw,” Trixie announced in a loud voice.
Dabrowski slowly turned his shadowed eyes toward her. “And how will you be able to conjure this miracle, Captain?”
“Not me: Vanka Maykov . . . the psychic.” She nodded to Sergeant Michalski, who had been guarding the entrance. He opened the door and Vanka ducked inside, accompanied by the two Daemons.
Trixie darted a look toward Vanka and almost despaired. That Warsaw’s hopes should rest in the hands of such a dishonest and disreputable man was truly astonishing. When he had first come to her with his proposition her immediate reaction had been to dismiss it out of hand. It sounded ridiculous. It sounded too much like a cheap trick designed to save his worthless Shade-loving skin.
Shades . . .
Trixie might have come to realize that UnFunDaMentalism’s classification of some races as UnderMentionables was evil nonsense but with regard to Shades she didn’t think she would ever be able to bring herself to trust them. They weren’t human and the RaTionalist inside her told her they were just wrong . . . Lilithian perversions of nature. And that this Ella Thomas wasn’t only a Shade but a Daemon to boot made her—it—all the more threatening. Trixie had a sneaking suspicion that as soon as she escaped back to her own world she would seek to destroy the Demi-Monde. What did the Daemons call it? Pulling the plug? No, Shades couldn’t be trusted . . . Daemons couldn’t be trusted.
Vanka tipped his battered tile and gave Trixie a jaunty wave. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a merry voice, “Vanka Maykov, procurer of blood, at your service.”
ELLA WAS PROUD OF HIM. SHE WAS AS PROUD OF VANKA AS SHE WAS nervous of Trixie Dashwood. While Ella had been shocked by Dabrowski’s appearance—he seemed to have aged alarmingly in the days since she had seen him last—this was as nothing to the transformation that Trixie had undergone during her time in the Ghetto. It wasn’t just the obvious changes—her magnificent long blond hair had been hacked crudely back into a boyish bob—that had unnerved Ella but the more subtle ones. The look of spoiled petulance that she remembered had gone; the Trixie who stood in the shadows at the side of the cellar was a distinctly harder and more dangerous woman. It was as though something had died inside the girl.
Now the eyes that Trixie Dashwood fixed on Ella were empty, emotionless . . . just as Heydrich’s had been. She wasn’t particularly enamored of the way Trixie kept fondling the butt of her revolver, either.
“And how do you propose to perform this miracle?” asked Dabrowski.
Vanka took a long draw on his morning cigarette. Cigarettes were now in such short supply that he was rationing himself to three a day—one in the morning, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. As far as Ella was concerned it was one of the few good things to have come out of the Uprising. “With the help of Miss Thomas here, I am intent on buying blood on the black market. I have some experience in trading illicit blood and I believe, given the correct financial inducements, it will be possible to buy sixty thousand liters of blood from the Blood Brothers and have it shipped to Warsaw. As I understand it there are three million people trapped here in Warsaw so sixty thousand liters is two weeks’ supply.”
“Two weeks . . .” sneered Dabrowski.
“Much can happen in two weeks,” interrupted Trixie. “The other Sectors might have a change of heart . . . anything. We should listen to this man.”
Dabrowski scowled. “And how much will this miracle cost?”
“Blood is currently trading for one hundred guineas a liter on the black market,” explained Vanka.
“Six million guineas!” gasped Dabrowski. He turned to Ella. “You know, Miss Thomas, I am disappointed in you. I expected something a little more imaginative from a Daemon. Isn’t the buying of blood on the black market a little prosaic—a little unDaemonic—for someone like you? I would have thought that you would have come to me to tell me you were planning something utterly fantastical like rolling back the Boundary Layer to let all us poor beleaguered Varsovians escape into the Great Beyond.” He started to laugh. He sounded almost hysterical. “But then again, I suppose your purchase of blood is equally far-fetched. We don’t have six million guineas. Warsaw is almost bloodrupt.”
Vanka gave a careless wave of his hand as though six million guineas was a mere bagatelle. “Miss Thomas here has access to certain funds which will comfortably accommodate such an outlay. She will act as your blood donor.” No one laughed at the quip, the subject was far too serious for that.
Ella saw every face in the room turn in her direction. “Yes, I can secure the six million guineas.”
“You? But you’re just a girl,” said Dabrowski contemptuously.
Ella refused to be insulted. “Girl or not, Colonel, you better believe me when I say I can raise the money. If the WFA can seize back control of the docks for long enough to unload the blood from the barges, then Vanka and I can organize its delivery.”
“How long would you need at the docks?” Trixie asked.
“Five hours,” answered Vanka.
“Impossible,” retorted Dabrowski.
“Not impossible,” corrected Trixie quietly. “It’ll be costly in lives but my regiment can do it. We’ll give you your five hours.”
“This is ridiculous. This is also much too good to be true!” objected Dabrowski. “What, may I ask, will you get out of this transaction, Colonel Maykov? As I understand it you are not a man famed for his charitable works.”
“The WFA’s help in having myself, Miss Thomas and Miss Williams escape from the Ghetto. I have to get to the Berlin Sector to negotiate the delivery of the blood with one of Shaka’s lieutenants.”
“And then?”
“Then the three of us will travel to NoirVille.”
Dabrowski laughed. “So now I understand. We are being bribed: you promise us blood and we get you out of Warsaw.”
“In a nutshell: yes,” agreed Vanka as he took another irritatingly casual draw on his cigarette.
“And once you’re out of the Ghetto what’s to stop you just hightailing it to NoirVille and forgetting about us?”
“Nothing. You’ll just have to trust me . . . us.”
“Ridiculous!” spluttered Dabrowski. “I cannot allow the Daemon—Miss Williams—to leave the Ghetto. It—she—is the last bargaining chip I have with Heydrich. If I surrender the Daemon I am sure that the Leader will be inclined to be more lenient.”
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br /> “Loath as I am to contradict you, Colonel Dabrowski,” came the calm voice of Trotsky, “my own assessment is that the time for surrender is long gone. No matter what we do now, Heydrich will still destroy the people of Warsaw. We’ve resisted him and given his SS a hiding. He can’t allow us to live, because alive we’re a permanent reminder to the rest of the Demi-Monde that once people fought to keep their independence. This young man may be a little . . . raffish, but his idea has merit. If we surrender, Heydrich will shoot us all. If we can hold out for just a few more weeks, then there is a chance.”
For over a minute Dabrowski sat in silence as he weighed his decision, then finally, reluctantly, he acquiesced. “Very well, Vanka Maykov, we will give you the opportunity to work your magic.”
“Great,” muttered Norma, “I’m out of this shithole at last.”
Ella wondered how Norma would react when she learned how Vanka was proposing they get out of Warsaw. At least it would take her mind off the lice.
“THE SEWERS!” EXCLAIMED NORMA. “YOU WANT ME TO ESCAPE FROM Warsaw by crawling through the sewers?”
Vanka nodded. “It is the only way. The SS are shooting anyone attempting to leave the Ghetto, and as there are twenty thousand of the bastards patrolling the walls, the chances of us slipping out that way are nonexistent. The alternative, Miss Williams, is to stay here.”
“Screw that. But what happens when we get to the end of the sewer? Where will we come out?”
“On a scarp of the Rhine. One branch empties into the river just below the Reinhard Heydrich Bridge, the new railway bridge that Comrade Commissar Dashwood built. The SS won’t be expecting anyone from Warsaw to pop out in Odessa.”
“What do you expect us to do then, swim across the river?” sneered Norma.
“Almost,” said Vanka casually. “The WFA have a few sympathizers in Odessa, one of whom has a rowing boat. At night it should be possible to scull across between the river patrols. The Anglos are well organized but that is their weakness: they are predictable.”
“But even if they can’t see us they’ll be able to smell us. After crawling through the sewers we’ll be covered from head to toe in—”
