The Demi-Monde: Winter

by Rod Rees

  ‘You must go, Miss Thomas! You are the only person available who fits all the selection criteria: you are a perfect physical match for the dormant Dupe; you are intelligent; you are healthy enough to endure the rigours of the Demi-Monde; and you are, according to the Captain, a talented jazz singer. You are ideal. You must go!’

  ‘Well, ideal or not, I ain’t going. You think I’m gonna let you drop me into the middle of Racism de Ville? Once those bastards spot my black ass I’m gonna have the life expectancy of a fruit fly. How do they dress in this ForthRight of yours: white robes and pointy hats? Do they have funny names like Mr Ku and Mrs Klux?’

  ‘This is a most unhelpful attitude, Miss Thomas.’

  ‘Well, General, it might be unhelpful, but I’ve got a shrewd idea that it’s a much more healthy one.’

  ‘I would remind you, Miss Thomas, that your life is currently a piece of shit.’

  ‘Well, that might be the case, General, but the prospect of spending the rest of my life pumping gas for Count Dracula and his pals makes it look like a mighty appealing piece of shit.’

  ‘Will five million dollars change your mind?’

  It did.

  10

  The Demi-Monde: 40th Day of Winter, 1004

  ImPuritanism is a staunchly hedonistic philosophy – mainly practised in the Quartier Chaud – based on the belief that the pursuit of pleasure is the primary duty of all Demi-Mondians. The ultimate aim of all those practising ImPuritanism is the securing of JuiceSense: the experiencing of the extreme pleasure that comes from an unbridled sexual orgasm. To achieve JuiceSense requires that men and women are spiritually equal and that man’s proclivity towards MALEvolence is controlled and muted. Such rampant and unrestrained sexual activity is, of course, vile and unnatural and violates the notion – enshrined in the UnFunDaMentalist creed of Living&More – that sexual union should only be undertaken for the purposes of procreation.

  – Religions of the Demi-Monde: Otto Weininger, University of Berlin Publications

  The thing that Captain Dabrowski pushed snarling and protesting into her father’s study was to all outward appearances a normal and quite attractive girl of about eighteen years of age, but even without being told, Trixie would have known it for the Daemon it was. The girl – the Daemon – was different.

  It was difficult for Trixie to quite put her finger on what made the Daemon look quite so wrong. It was modest in stature. Its hair was a raven black, which was unusual in the ForthRight but quite common in the Demi-Monde: it was the sort of hair colour sported by some of the lesser races like the Chinks and the Shades. The hairstyle the Daemon had adopted was odd too, pushing back its hair to leave its ears exposed, ears that were circled with studs. This affectation was really too disgusting for words: the studs were almost – she shuddered at the thought – ImPure.

  The Daemon walked in quite a masculine way too. The fashion amongst ForthRight girls was to make small rapid steps, not the great hulking strides the Daemon took. Certainly the thing moved with a decided limp, but that only seemed to emphasise its strange and wholly unfeminine athleticism.

  But for Trixie the thing that indicated that the Daemon wasn’t a real girl was the way it stared at everybody. There was no modest dropping of the eyes when a man looked at it: the Daemon glared angrily back. It might have hidden its daemonic ugliness beneath the form of a quite pretty girl – though Trixie thought its nose a trifle too long and its chin just a little too square for it to be really pretty – but there was no mistaking that it was most certainly not the coy and respectable ForthRight gentle-girl it was dressed as.

  Yes, the Daemon was a determined-looking individual. It might have an ugly bruise on the side of its face, and its arms might be decorated with a huge number of cuts and scratches, but it carried itself in a decidedly haughty manner. The cuts and scratches were curious too. They appeared to be crusted with dried blood and this, more than anything, confirmed that the girl was, in fact, a Daemon. Cuts on Demi-Mondians – on real people – healed as thin white lines, not as ugly red welts.

  And its decorum was as appalling as its appearance. Indifferent to the protocol that demanded a woman remained silent until addressed by a man, the Daemon spoke first.

  ‘Ah … Aleister Crowley, so we meet again. I wondered when you would come crawling out from under your rock. So how is the Wickedest Man in All the World? Still promoting your poisonous nonsense no doubt, still meddling in the forbidden arts.’

  Trixie was aghast. No one spoke to Comrade Crowley like that: the man’s temper and his peevishness were legendary. But, astonishingly, Crowley seemed, if anything, to be cowed by the girl: he actually reddened a little.

  ‘I am unsure as to what I have done to deserve such an unflattering sobriquet,’ he said almost apologetically.

  The Daemon laughed, revealing a set of the most abnormally – supernaturally? – white and even teeth. No one human had such perfect teeth … no one in the Rookeries anyway. ‘Perhaps I am just anticipating an honour yet to be bestowed upon you, Crowley. Perhaps you have yet to develop the full menu of brute appetites you were famous for. But I’m sure that together with that psychopath Heydrich you will be able to arrange things so that history will view you as the evil bastard I know you to be.’

  By the Spirits, this Daemon really was intent on occupying an early grave.

  But then presumably, as the Daemon occupied the Spirit World, it was already dead.

  Dead or not, no one – no one sane, that is – openly criticised Comrade Leader Heydrich. Criticism of the Leader implied doubt and doubt signalled that the citizen was not convinced of the rightness of the Leader’s will. And a citizen who doubted the Leader relinquished all claims to be a citizen, they became non-citizens. And in the ForthRight a non-citizen was a nonNix, just like the nuJus and the Poles and the Shades … and Lillibeth Marlborough.

  Amazingly Crowley simply shrugged off this slur on the Leader’s infallibility. He waved a heavily beringed hand in the direction of Trixie. ‘May I introduce Lady Trixiebell Dashwood, who will be your hostess for the next two weeks? Lady Trixiebell, this is Miss Norma Williams.’

  Both the girls – well, the girl and the imitation-girl – stood examining each other from across the room. Truth be told, Trixie was unsure as to quite what was acceptable behaviour when being introduced to a Daemon. But the remembrance of her father’s request that she form a ‘friendship’ with this creature persuaded her to dispense with the niceties of etiquette. Trixie took a deep calming breath and walked across the room in order to allow the Daemon to curtsy to her. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Norma …’

  Norma? What a stupid name, even for a Daemon.

  ‘… I’m Lady Trixiebell Dashwood. My friends call me Trixie.’

  To Trixie’s astonishment the Daemon didn’t curtsy, instead it merely took Trixie’s hand in its own and shook it in an alarmingly familiar fashion.

  To be touching a Daemon!

  ‘Hi.’

  High? What in the Demi-Monde was this salutation ‘high’? ‘I’m Norma Williams and my friends call me Norma.’ The Daemon paused. ‘But you, my little fifth columnist, may call me Miss Williams.’

  Though Trixie was somewhat nonplussed by both the Daemon’s grossly impolite behaviour and her confusion as to just what exactly a ‘fifth columnist’ was, she did, however, take the opportunity to smell the Daemon. The journals had it that Daemons could be recognised by their stench: the tang of their blood was, apparently, unmistakable. Disappointingly Trixie couldn’t smell anything untoward in the room except the pong coming from Archie Clement’s boots.

  ‘And this is the Comrade Commissar Algernon Dashwood,’ said Crowley, nodding towards Trixie’s father.

  Distracted by her failure to detect a blood odour on the Daemon, Trixie wasn’t prepared for the Daemon’s next insult, this one directed at her father.

  ‘Dashwood, eh?’ observed the Daemon in a contemptuous voice. ‘Then I guess your great-great-grandfather must hav
e been Sir Francis Dashwood.’ The Daemon didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Now he was a real reprobate. As I recall he was founder of the Hellfire Club, which had the motto Fais ce que tu voudras enshrined over its doorway. This was, of course, plagiarised from the writings of François Rabelais.’ The Daemon turned to Crowley. ‘So you see, Crowley, your own slogan “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law” is twice stolen: once by you and once by the Dashwoods.’

  Crowley laughed. ‘You are too clever by half, Miss Williams; the maxim of the UnFunDaMentalist Church is “Let the Leader’s will be the whole of the Law.” If you are to censure me then you could at least do me the honour of being accurate.’

  This observation seemed to surprise the Daemon. ‘The little tweaks ABBA has made to the Demi-Monde never cease to amaze.’

  ABBA? Why would a Daemon in thrall to Loki speak of the Lord God, ABBA?

  ‘So, what’s to be my fate, Crowley? You say that this girl …’

  ‘This girl’! You impudent cow!

  ‘… is to be my hostess? What for? Are we just going to sit around discussing bustles and bonnets? That’s all the women in this patriarchal ForthRight of yours seem to be good for. From what I’ve seen and heard they’ve had any independence of thought brainwashed out of them.’

  Brainwashed? What was a brain?

  Crowley gave an indulgent smile. ‘I thought it would be more pleasant for you, Miss Williams, to spend your time as my guest in the company of someone of your own age. Of course, if you prefer, I can return you to the Lubyanka, but you were very outspoken in your criticisms of its amenities.’

  Now it was the Daemon’s turn to laugh. ‘I get it: Princess Trixiebell here is going to be my stable pony, brought in to keep the troublesome Norma Williams docile and cooperative.’ It shrugged. ‘Okay, I’m relaxed; any place has got to be better than a ten-by-five in that shithouse you call the Lubyanka.’

  A gasp from Trixie at the use of a profanity by the Daemon… and that she’d used it in front of men!

  The Daemon obviously noted her consternation. ‘Yeah, little Miss Milksop over there looks as though she could use a little loosening up.’

  ‘I should warn you, Miss Williams,’ said Crowley carefully, ‘that you will be under constant supervision whilst you are living in Dashwood Manor and that the grounds are constantly patrolled. Your confinement is the responsibility of Colonel Archie Clement. If you try to escape he has been empowered to punish you most severely.’

  The Daemon’s eyes hardened and its mouth tightened. ‘Then as we’re in “giving warnings” mode, Mr Aleister Crowley, you better understand that if that piece of human excrement you call Archie Clement comes within ten foot of me I’m gonna rip his arm off and beat him to death with it.’

  Stunned though Trixie was that a woman could issue such a threat, the most remarkable thing was that she was utterly convinced that the Daemon meant every word it said. This wasn’t just empty sabre-rattling.

  Archie Clement’s face darkened and he made to rise out of his chair, but he was waved back by Crowley. ‘There will be no need for you to speak to or to socialise with Colonel Clement, Miss Williams, provided you do not try to escape.’

  All he received by way of reply from the Daemon was the merest of smiles.

  11

  The Real World: 12 June 2018

  The Demi-Monde® is the first simulation product to employ ParaDigm CyberResearch’s Totally Realistic User Envelopment (TRUE®) technology to ensure full and all-pervasive Player–Simulation meshing. TRUE is the only product foundationed on ParaDigm’s BioNeural-Kinetic Security Sensor (PBN-KiSS®), optimised for the probing, gathering, predicting and processing of neural, cerebral and autonomic bodily responses. TRUE also employs ParaDigm’s own FAST/TRAK® Neurobahn-Network and its 2ndSkin® Total Immersion Shroud.

  – The Demi-Monde® Product Description Manual: 14 June 2013

  Somehow Ella had assumed when she agreed to undertake the mission to rescue Norma Williams from the Demi-Monde that she would be subjected to weeks, months even, of training, familiarisation, role-playing exercises and total immersion in her new persona before she was sent on her way.

  She was wrong.

  A mere hour after her final meeting with the General, forty minutes after the session with the Army lawyer signing numerous waivers and disclaimers – a little unnerved that for ‘benefits accruing upon death’ she had been allocated the notional rank of captain in the US Marines – and twenty minutes after a very upsetting meeting with an attorney to draw up her will, Ella was led to the Professor’s laboratory, where she would be prepared to enter the Demi-Monde.

  The laboratory was situated at an even lower level than the room where she’d met Heydrich, which meant, so far as Ella could judge, that she was now standing just a few yards up from the earth’s core. It was a modest enough room: white-painted walls, plastic-tiled floor, and furnished with just an examination couch, a control panel with a few monitors set in it and a chair for the use of the Professor.

  The Professor smiled, displaying a set of brilliantly white teeth standing like tombstones behind his thin lips, ushered Ella onto a couch, clipped an electrode to the lobe of her ear and began. ‘If you will just lean back and relax, Miss Thomas. I am going to place a drop of liquid in your right eye. Don’t worry, it’s a totally painless procedure.’ It was such an innocuous request and Ella was still so distracted by matters legal …

  Putting the money in trust for Billy was definitely the right thing to have done. That way he couldn’t try to spend it all in a single week.

  … that before she quite realised what she was doing, she had complied.

  ‘What was that for?’ she asked a little belatedly as she dabbed a tear from her cheek.

  ‘Contained in that drop was a miracle of cyber-science developed by my team of cyber-engineers at ParaDigm: a miracle known as PINC …’

  One more acronym and murder will be done.

  ‘… or Personal Implanted nanoComputer. Four years ago we were tasked by the US Military to find a means of radically reducing training times and of more efficiently inculcating troops with the specific knowledge sets needed to make them more effective when operating in AWEs – a quick and easy way of teaching them things like foreign languages and giving them an understanding of idiosyncratic patterns of religious and social behaviour. What we developed were Memory Supplements: nano-sized memory chips that are biologically compatible with the human brain. Once in contact with the brain these PINC chips fuse with the organic tissue of the brain and are able to graft information – painlessly and seamlessly – onto a person’s memory bank.’

  Using one of his bony fingers he tapped one of the monitors on the control panel. ‘Excellent! You, Miss Thomas, are now the proud possessor of a PINC, a microbe-size computer which contains all the information you could ever require regarding the Demi-Monde, including fluency in all the major languages. But as you are the first player we have sent into the Demi-Monde who is fully au fait with the Real World, PINC will also give you an ability to know everything about everybody in the DemiMonde. This will optimise your Dupe-to-Dupe effectiveness.’ The Professor nodded towards a female nurse who was hovering at the side of the room. ‘If you would follow Nurse Green, she will equip you with your Total Immersion Shroud.’

  ‘Do I really wanna know what a Total Immersion Shroud is?’

  He ignored her. ‘The TIS ensures full and all-pervasive player–simulation meshing. The TIS has three main purposes. First, it blocks out all external, Real World, stimuli. Second, it allows ABBA to receive feedback along a neurobahn from the player’s body as it reacts to events in the Demi-Monde, which in turn enables ABBA to mimic these reactions in the player’s Dupe. This raises the player’s perception of the reality of the Demi-Monde. Third, the TIS protects the player. The safety of our players is of prime importance …’

  Ella had the distinct feeling she was now in Bullshit Central, but then five million bucks bought a whole he
ap of Bullshit Tolerance.

  ‘… so not only does a player’s TIS help sustain the player’s bodily functions – body temperature, blood pressure and so on – and give our medical staff real-time feedback of the player’s vital signs, but it also maintains the player’s body. Whilst in the Demi-Monde the player will be, here in the Real World, comatose. The TIS manipulates the player’s body to obviate the development of pressure sores, the contraction of ligaments, the attenuation of muscles and all the other ailments a bedridden body is prey to.’

  To Ella this sounded less than appetising: bedsores and attenuated muscles had not been mentioned in the promotional brochure.

  ‘At the end of his or her sojourn in the Demi-Monde, the player is as healthy and fit as he or she has ever been.’

  ‘Unless they can’t get out of the place,’ observed Ella wryly.

  ‘Well … let us hope for the best in that regard.’

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Now, Miss Thomas, Nurse Green will prepare you for entry to the Demi-Monde.’

  The nurse led Ella through to a large room swathed in stainless steel and equipped with a couch, yet another control panel, a shower unit tucked in one corner and, oddly, a large black circle inscribed on the floor.

  ‘If you would strip yourself naked, Miss Thomas, and remove all body ornamentation,’ the nurse asked in what Ella thought was an excessively casual manner.

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Why, yes: in order for the TIS to do its job correctly it must be directly in contact with your skin – all of your skin. And anyway, we need access to your orifices. We have to place evacuation ducts into certain … places to eliminate waste products. We won’t be able to interrupt you in the Demi-Monde to allow you to take a comfort break, now will we?’

  Silly me.

  ‘We will, of course, feed and nourish you through a drip. But don’t worry: all these connections – both for nutrients and for waste products – will be made once you are in the Demi-Monde. This will minimise discomfort and embarrassment.’