by Rod Rees
“How will you perform this miracle?” asked Trotsky.
“While I was in Berlin I gained access to a thing called the IM Manual—”
“The IM Manual?” he murmured. “A strange coincidence: Immanual is the nuJu prophet our holy writings foretell will lead my people to the Promised Land.”
“The IM Manual allows me to make alterations to the Demi-Monde, but to do this I will have to get into the Warsaw Blood Bank. The only way to use the IM Manual is through one of the Bank’s Transfusion Booths.”
Trixie gave another sneering laugh. “Then doing that will take a second miracle, Miss Thomas: the SS have now occupied the Warsaw Blood Bank.”
“Can you retake it?”
Trixie ran a cordite-blackened hand through her cropped hair. “Maybe. Temporarily. It’ll take two hundred fighters to take the Bank and to hold it. How long will you need in the Bank to work this magic of yours?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Make that three hundred fighters. The problem isn’t so much fighting our way into the Bank, it’s that there will be no way we can fight our way out of it. It’ll be a suicide mission.”
“There’s no other way,” said Vanka quietly. “To give the three million people trapped in the Ghetto a chance to escape, three hundred fighters must sacrifice themselves.”
“You’re very generous with my fighters’ lives, Colonel.”
“Oh, I’ll be with them, Miss Dashwood, keeping an eye on young Ella here.”
Dabrowski drained his glass of Solution. “You’re right, of course, Colonel Maykov, but to venture into the Great Beyond is still a huge risk. Despite what Miss Thomas says, no one knows what dangers might be waiting there. It might be as inhospitable as Terror Incognita. And it will need careful planning. The settlers who go must take seeds and livestock with them, they must take tools and enough food to last them until their first harvests are in. There are a thousand and one things which must be thought of.” Dabrowski trailed off as though cowed by the enormity of the decision he was being asked to make. He gave his head a mournful shake. “No . . . it’s not a decision I am willing to make.”
“Then let the people choose,” prompted Ella. “Ask them to vote as to whether they stay or go. That’s the democratic way.”
“Democracy, eh?” chortled Trixie. “Your friend Miss Norma Williams—the other Daemon—spoke of that. It’s nonsense. It has no place in the Demi-Monde.”
“And what is this ‘democracy’ of yours, Miss Thomas?” asked Delegate Trotsky.
“It’s a system of government where all the adults in a society vote to elect a leader or a government . . . or, as in this case, vote on something that radically changes their way of life.”
“It is a ridiculous system,” Trixie Dashwood sneered. “All your democracy is, is a fancy name for mob rule. How can common people know who the best leader is? How can common people know how a nation should be governed? The people must be told what to do. Your democracy is a recipe for indecision, muddle and anarchy.”
Dabrowski had no such doubts. “No, Miss Thomas is right. The people must be told the risks and the dangers they will be facing if they journey into the Great Beyond and the risks and dangers they face if they stay here in the Ghetto. And then they must choose themselves. It is they who must decide whether they stay or go. Yes, it is for the people to decide, not me.”
Trixie stared at him with a mixture of astonishment and contempt. “Colonel, I beg you, don’t do this. You cannot ask the people, you must command the people. A strong leader does not debate, he orders.”
“Enough,” announced Dabrowski. “We will put the facts before the people of Warsaw and they will decide. If they choose to journey into the Great Beyond it will be their decision, not mine.” He gave a wry smile. “But the more immediate problem I have is to find a commander mad enough to take and to hold the Blood Bank.”
“That, Colonel, is an honor I claim,” said Trixie. “But know this, Shade, if you fail again and condemn three hundred of my fighters to an unnecessary death, I swear by the Spirits that my last act in this life will be to kill you with my bare hands.”
And looking at her, Ella knew she meant every word of the threat.
EVEN DABROWSKI, WHO SEEMED TO ELLA TO BE INCREASINGLY LOSING touch with reality, recognized it was impractical to have all of the one and a half million adults in Warsaw gather together to hear what needed to be said. So, following the advice of Delegate Trotsky, the word was passed around the Ghetto that each district should elect representatives, and these representatives would in turn attend a meeting where they would be advised of Ella’s proposal and have an opportunity to debate it. After this they would return to their electors to explain what they had heard. In this way, Trotsky hoped, the citizens of Warsaw could make their own informed decision as to whether they would stay or leave.
With five hundred representatives to accommodate, it was decided that the meeting would be held in one of the now empty warehouses in the Industrial Zone. And it was here the next afternoon that Dabrowski took the stage before the massed ranks of the representatives. “My friends and fellow citizens,” he began, his voice so weak and tremulous that it barely reached those standing at the back of the warehouse. “I have called you here today in order that we may decide upon our future. I will be brutally frank with you: we have lost control of the Blood Bank and our attempts to secure deliveries of blood from outside the Ghetto have failed. We have a little under two weeks’ supply of blood left.”
That statement shocked the audience into silence; death was staring them in the face.
“Until yesterday I thought I would be standing before you to tell you that it was time for us to surrender and to throw ourselves on the mercy of Reinhard Heydrich. But now there is a new hope, which promises an uncertain—even a dangerous—future. And being dangerous, it is a future which each and every one of you, individually, must decide to accept or to reject. We believe we have a chance to breach the Boundary Layer.”
For a moment the crowd in the warehouse was silent and then it exploded in a storm of questions. Only by slamming a wooden mallet hard onto the table he was using as a lectern was Dabrowski able to restore order.
“I repeat: we have the possibility—and I stress that it is only a possibility, not a certainty—of opening the Boundary Layer and passing through to the Great Beyond.”
“Is the Great Beyond safe?” someone shouted.
“We believe it to be habitable. We see animals roaming there, we see trees growing there, we see grass flourishing there and, most importantly, we see Blood Banks standing there. Our own legends tell us that our ancestors once inhabited the Great Beyond. So the answer, as best we can judge, is yes, the Great Beyond is safe. But we will only be able to keep the Boundary open for one hour and then it will close forever. Once you have moved into the Beyond there will be no coming back.” Dabrowski was silent for a moment. “But, of course, this will also mean that never again will you have to worry about the lunatic ambitions Heydrich has of destroying our people. It will be a new beginning.”
“When must we make this decision?” This question was yelled from the back of the warehouse.
“Our intention is to try to open the Boundary Layer in two days. And I remind you, there will be no returning to the Demi-Monde; everything you will need to start a new life in the Beyond must be taken with you. Once in the Beyond there will be no recourse to the Industrial Zone. Life in the Beyond will be hard.” Dabrowski leaned against the table as though drained of energy and for a moment Ella, standing at the very back of the warehouse, thought he was going to faint. Then he gathered himself. “I would ask you representatives to provide me with the names of all those wishing to travel to the Beyond within the next twenty-four hours.”
Another question was yelled from the opposite side of the room: “And those who choose not to go?”
“The army will fight on. The people of Warsaw will fight on.”
“Good old T
rixie,” someone shouted, and there was a round of cheering. But most of the crowd stayed silent; they had obviously decided that certain death was not for them.
Chapter 32
The Demi-Monde: 85th Day of Winter, 1004
I am moved to protest the alarmingly dilatory progress the SS has made in subjugating the Warsaw Ghetto. As you will be aware, the Case Red aspect of Operation Barbarossa may not be commenced until Case White has been completed, Warsaw pacified and our rear is secured. As Case Red necessitates the maneuvering of the ForthRight army through the Hub the attack MUST be initiated not later than the 1st day of Spring if the army’s advance is to be completed before ThawsDay, the 60th day of Spring. After ThawsDay the Hub nanoBites wake from hibernation and anything penetrating more than six inches below the surface of the HubLand will be immediately devoured. This, of course, makes it impossible for men and matériel to advance or maneuver in the Hub. Be in no doubt, Comrade Colonel, that the inability of your SS to subdue the Ghetto could lead to the failure of Operation Barbarossa.
—LETTER WRITTEN BY GENERAL MIKHAIL DMITRIEVICH SKOBELEV TO SS COLONEL ARCHIE CLEMENT, DATED 80TH DAY OF WINTER, 1004
They emerged from the manhole at the edge of the square and, once she was certain that the coast was clear, Trixie Dashwood hustled her troops into position, the soldiers hunkering down behind the walls of a burned-out building whilst she surveyed the Bank through her battered telescope.
Ella kept as far away from the girl as was physically possible. She had seen the way the girl looked at her and there had been real hate in her eyes. The best thing she could do, Ella had decided, was to keep maximum real estate between the two of them until Trixie had cooled down. The way Ella saw it, the quicker she was out of the Ghetto the better.
There was a nudge from Vanka, who handed her his telescope. “Tell me what you think, Ella.”
She brought the telescope up to her eye. The Warsaw Blood Bank was as large and imposing as the one in Berlin and had been built from the same invulnerable Mantle-ite. Despite the carnage and the destruction that surrounded it, the Bank stood undamaged and inviolate in the center of the square, shimmering green in the sunlight. From what she could see the only notable difference between this Bank and the one in Berlin was that the Varsovians, for whatever reason, had built a stone extension onto its front, and it was here that the SS garrison was gathered.
Vanka explained. “So many people visit the Banks that some of the Districts have built Commercial Centers that abut onto them. Firms of lawyers and accountants lease office space in them and there are restaurants and restrooms, all the things the Banks lack.”
“Is that why the SS guard is concentrated there?”
“Correct. And of course, as the only way into and out of a Bank is through the Center, that makes it an ideal bunker from which to defend the place. Let’s see how many of those SS bastards there are waiting for us.”
Vanka took the telescope back and spent a good five minutes counting the SS soldiers.
“I make it fifty of them,” he announced finally. “So with the ones inside eating and resting, I guess there’re around seventy-five of the buggers. But I don’t see any artillery, so that’s a blessing.”
“Only seventy-five?” queried Ella.
“I’m not surprised. Clement is concentrating his men along a line that surrounds the Industrial Zone, ready to make his final assault. The problem here though isn’t the size of the garrison; it’s the hundred yards of open square between us and the Bank’s entrance. It’s a killing ground. All I think we can do is run for it and hope we catch the SS napping.”
Ella was less than impressed. “You must be joking. Anyone trying that will be cut down in an instant.”
“Then let’s hope our lunatic captain can think of a better idea.”
Fortunately she could. Even as Vanka asked the question Trixie Dashwood shouted orders to her second-in-command, Lieutenant Michalski. “Have the men spread out and search for a roadworthy steamer. Once they’ve found that, we need sheets of steel capable of resisting M4 fire bolted and chained to its sides. We’re going to make our own armored steamer.”
IT WAS THE FIRST BATTLE THAT ELLA HAD EVER FOUND HERSELF fighting in and the word that best described the experience was “terrifying.” Stepping out from the wall she was cowering behind was to enter a cauldron of flying bullets, explosions and screams of the wounded.
For the first forty yards of the advance on the Bank their improvised armored steamer worked perfectly. Protected by the huge steel sheet chained to its front, the WFA fighters walked slowly and steadily across the square while the SS poured hundreds of rounds of rifle fire quite ineffectually in their direction. The noise of the bullets smacking into the steel was horrendous but Ella consoled herself that it was better to be deafened than to be dead.
By the time they had covered fifty yards it was apparent that whoever was commanding the SS had come to the belated realization that they were wasting their time and that they needed something with a bit more grunt to stop the steamer. And it turned out that Vanka had been wrong: the defenders did have artillery. Thankfully the first shot from the six-pounder was wild, whistling six or seven feet above the steamer, the only effect of the near miss being to galvanize the steamer’s driver to urge more speed out of the vehicle. Unfortunately he wasn’t quick enough: just five yards from the Bank the steamer was hit amidships by the field gun.
As the steamer’s boiler exploded in a fury of scalding steam, the WFA fighters made their final, desperate assault on the Bank. It was mayhem, a jump-cut sequence of death and carnage. For an instant it seemed as though the attack would be repulsed; the SS, knowing that if the WFA fighters got inside the Bank they were dead men, fought with ferocious bravery born of desperation. The two sides were reduced to blasting each other from a distance of a few feet.
It was then that Sergeant Wysochi charged forward and blew open the Commercial Center’s front door with a shotgun. Now the WFA fighters were able to fight their way into the Bank and the killing could begin in earnest.
The mêlée that ensued was confused and murderous. Not that Ella saw too much of it, Vanka having pulled her back down behind the smoldering remains of the steamer, shouting that she was too important to risk in a firefight. Gradually the superior numbers of the WFA and their sheer bloody-mindedness told. They were in.
“Barricade the doors and windows!” screamed Trixie as she hurdled the debris and the bodies that littered the Bank’s entrance. “They’ll be on us soon.”
Ella felt Vanka’s hand on her head. “Keep that lovely head of yours down, Ella, the SS will be doing their damnedest to shoot it off in a moment.”
It was timely advice. No sooner had she stooped down below the level of the windows along the front of the Commercial Center than there was a fusillade of automatic fire and the ceiling and back wall behind her exploded, showering plaster and glass everywhere.
“Fire, you bastards!” she heard Trixie command. “Make them keep their distance!” She stabbed a finger toward Ella. “And you, Daemon, get working your magic.”
“Where’s the Banking Hall?” Ella yelled at Vanka, who nodded and led her crawling to the back of the Commercial Center and through a pair of wide double doors into the huge Banking Hall beyond. It was identical in size and layout to the one in Berlin, the only difference being that this room was silent; all the chattering screens were still. As she scuttled into the vast hall all she could hear was the snap of the hobnails of her boots on the Mantle-ite floor and the rattle and crack of rifle fire coming from the Commercial Center. It was an eerie, desolate place—the green fluorescent glow of the Mantle-ite seemed more intense than she remembered from Berlin.
She strode over to the nearest Transfusion Booth and placed her hand on the indented shape to the left of the keyboard. Immediately the screen came to life, the rotating symbols clattering around.
THE BANK OF WARSAW WELCOMES
ELLA THOMAS
PL
EASE ENTER YOUR PASSWORD
There was a tremendous explosion, big enough to send a shock wave shuddering through the hall that almost knocked Ella off her feet. “You’d better get a move on,” urged Vanka. “I think the SS are a little annoyed about our taking the Bank. That was heavy artillery. Trixie Dashwood’s little band of desperadoes ain’t gonna last long against that.”
As quick as she was able, Ella typed in her password and accessed ABBA’s IM Manual, shuffled through to “AMEND CYBER-MILIEU CHARACTERISTICS,” and then pressed “ENTER.”
WHICH ASPECT OF THE CYBER-MILIEU DO YOU WISH TO AMEND?
Ella typed “OPTIONS?”
AMENDMENT OF CYBER-MILIEU CHARACTERISTICS
PARAMETERS THAT MAY BE AMENDED INCLUDE:
1. BLOOD SUPPLY
2. CLIMATE
3. COMMODITY SUPPLY
4. DEMOGRAPHY
5. ENVIRONMENTAL AND PHYSICAL CONSTRAINTS
6. FLORA AND FAUNA
7. GEOGRAPHY
8. HUB, THE
9. INDUSTRIAL ZONE, THE
10. IRRIGATION
11. PORTALS
12. RIVERINE CHARACTERISTICS
13. RUNES
14. SCALAR CHARACTERISTICS
15. TERROR INCOGNITA
16. TOPOGRAPHY
17. URBAN BAND, THE
18. WASTE MANAGEMENT AND THE SEWERAGE SYSTEM
Ella looked at the screen dumbfounded. There was no mention of the Boundary Layer. She felt panic well up inside her. What if she couldn’t do what she had said she could? What if all these brave WFA fighters were dying for nothing?
Think, Ella, think.
What was the Boundary Layer?
It was the means by which ParaDigm’s programmers had confined the population of the Demi-Monde. Therefore it was a “constraint.” She typed in “5.” Immediately the tiles that made up the screen began to clack around.
ENVIRONMENTAL AND PHYSICAL CONSTRAINTS
PARAMETERS THAT MAY BE AMENDED INCLUDE:
1. BOUNDARY LAYER
2. DEPTH OF SOIL LAYER
3. DISTRIBUTION AND VORACITY OF NANOBITES
