by Rod Rees
‘That is if seventy million doses are adequate for your purposes,’ Bole observed. ‘The prognosis of the Intelligence Bureau, based on the disease’s rate of infection, is that half the population of the USA will die within the three-month period you cite. And before you ask: no, it is impossible to supply more than seventy million doses of the vaccine within the three-month deadline.’
And by supplying less than half the needed doses, eighty million Americans will die and the US economy will be crippled, Bole added silently. Whilst the Plague hadn’t acted in quite the way predicted, it could at least be used to weaken the British Empire’s most formidable economic and political rival.
‘But six billion dollars!’
‘That’s one way of looking at it, Mr Kenton, the other is that you are valuing the lives of American citizens at a rate of eighty dollars each, which seems to me to be quite a bargain.’
Kenton shook his head. ‘The President … Congress will never wear it. For the love of God, Sir Broderick, Britain and America are meant to be allies …’ For a moment he seemed stunned by the enormity of the numbers. ‘Surely the cost can be cut?’
‘If you want such a huge quantity of vaccine shipped against such an incredibly tight timetable then you must expect it to be an expensive exercise.’ Bole shrugged. ‘But if the terms are unacceptable you are perfectly at liberty to go elsewhere.’
‘You know darn well there isn’t any “elsewhere”. You’re blackmailing us.’
‘I would appreciate it if you could be a tad less emotional, Mr Kenton. Emotion impairs clear thinking and from what I can see from the Surgeon General’s report to the President clear thinking is now of the essence.’
Bole was delighted to see Kenton’s eyes widen. It was obviously beyond his comprehension how the Intelligence Bureau could have got access to such a top-secret document so quickly.
‘According to the Surgeon General, by the end of the year there won’t be much of a USA left to blackmail. What was his prognosis? Ah, yes, I remember: of the one hundred and fifty million American citizens currently extant, if the Plague is left unchecked this number will be reduced to just thirty million. Time to buy stocks in morticians I think, Mr Kenton.’
‘This is no laughing matter.’
‘I never laugh, Mr Kenton. I am taking this matter very seriously and that is why, despite the enormous difficulties ParaDigm Rx has to overcome, it will supply the seventy million doses within three months and hence save seventy million American lives.’ Bole took a sip of his honeyed water. ‘Of course, the supply of the vaccine is just one of the challenges you will be facing.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You will need to tell those American citizens denied the vaccine – the untreated eighty million – that they are being condemned to death.’
Bole could tell by Kenton’s reaction that this was something that hadn’t occurred to the man. ‘There’ll be panic.’
‘Which could be avoided.’
‘How?’
‘It is not for me to dictate US domestic policy, but it might be possible for ParaDigm Rx to provide you with a quantity of placebo vaccines – imitation vaccines – containing nothing but purified water. These will be useless in fighting the Plague, of course, but it will give some comfort to the recipients and help avert panic. Everybody will think they are being vaccinated even though, in reality, less than half the population will have been protected.’
‘But how to choose who gets the real vaccine and who gets the fake?’
‘Oh, I am sure a good Christian like you will be able to choose those Americans who most deserve to be protected from the Plague. Salvation, as I understand it, is only given to the righteous.’
And the white.
Book One
Part One:
Percy Shelley
1:01
London, the Rookeries
The Demi-Monde: 90th Day of Summer, 1005
Following the successful landing of the Column of Loci on Terror Incognita, the final arrangements for the Ceremony of Purification to be held on the 90th day of Fall are to be enacted. This will involve:
The notification of those six million citizens of the ForthRight who were recipients of the Victory in the Coven medal that they should attend the Ceremony (‘the Attendees’). They should be advised that failure to accept this honour will be deemed a Crime against the ForthRight and they will be punished accordingly. Responsibility: Comrade Commissar Heinrich Himmler
The arrangement of all logistical aspects of transporting the Attendees to Terror Incognita and of housing/feeding them whilst there. Responsibility: Comrade Commissar Antoine-Henri Jomini
The ForthRight Navy to achieve River Supremacy for one week prior to the Ceremony in order to facilitate the use of barges to transport the Attendees across the Wheel River. Responsibility: Comrade Admiral William Teach
The cryptos employed by the Checkya in NoirVille to use black propaganda (notably the promulgation of The Protocols of the Sages of nuJuism and of the Most Ancient and All-Seeing Order of Kohanim) to encourage NoirVille to declare war on the JAD, this to ensure that the NoirVillian HimPis are ‘otherwise engaged’ during the Ceremony. Responsibility: Comrade Commissar Francis Walsingham
The arrest of the Normalist leader and dissident Norma Williams. Responsibility: Comrade General Roman von Ungern-Sternberg
Extract from the minutes of the emergency PolitBuro meeting held under the guidance of the Great Leader on the 1st day of Fall, 1005
‘Queek, mon chéri, fais beaucoup de bang, banging.’
Burlesque Bandstand was only too happy to oblige. He pushed Norma out of harm’s way behind him and then, standing side by side, he and Odette started blasting the Checkya agents who were racing to cut off their escape route out of the Crystal Palace. They were fortunate that the big blond bugger who had thrown the gas canisters seemed to know his business and was using his pistol to good effect, but even with his help, Burlesque knew it would be nip and tuck whether they came out of this alive. There were a lot of the bastards shooting at them, and in the end it was only thanks to the hordes of screaming, running, panicking people milling around that they managed to elude their pursuers and to shove their way along a corridor, through the stage door and into the street.
Outside there was even more chaos, with thousands of men, women and children flooding out of the Crystal Palace as they tried to escape the fighting inside. The one piece of good luck was that the curly-haired item who Norma had slapped – Percy Shelley, Burlesque thought she had said his name was – seemed to have a getaway planned. ‘This way, Comwades! I have a steamer waiting just thwee stweets away.’
Reluctant though he was to follow the man – men who couldn’t pronounce their ‘r’s were not, in his opinion, to be trusted – Burlesque had no other option, so he took a tight hold on Norma’s arm and, with Odette’s help, they bullied their way through the press of people. A few minutes later the six of them – the big blond bugger seemed to have a woman in tow – were scrambling aboard a getaway steamer that was standing puffing and panting down a side street.
Once he had seated himself, Shelley adjusted the pince-nez perched atop his long nose, then spoke. ‘We must move quickly, Comwades,’ he said, seemingly irritated by having to raise his voice to compete with the noise of the steamer’s pistons as the driver opened up the vehicle’s boiler. ‘I suspect that once order has been we-established and Heydwich wealises that you have escaped then a hue and cwy will be waised. We’re not far fwom the docks, and once there, I am sure Comwade Moynahan’s bottomless wallet will secure us six berths on a barge heading for NoirVille.’
Burlesque decided that he’d had enough of all this fucking around with blokes he didn’t know giving him orders. He shoved the muzzle of his revolver up against the side of Shelley’s head. ‘Just ’ang on a mo’, matey. We ain’t goin’ anywheres till I know just ’oo the fuck you are.’
Shelley hesitated as though not quite sure whet
her he should be taking Burlesque’s threats seriously. ‘I say, Comwade, this is hardly sporting behaviour, ’specially when a chap ain’t even heeled.’
His protest did him no good and to emphasise how seriously she and Burlesque took ‘sporting behaviour’ Odette pushed her pistol into his groin. ‘Et, monsieur, pleeze, do not of the movements mostly sudden make otherwise I will blow away your … ’ow you say, zizi, mon chéri?’
‘Willy,’ suggested Burlesque.
‘Bon! If you make the moves rapide, monsieur, you will go through life sans votre willy. Comprenez?’
Shelley certainly seemed to comprenez. ‘Wouldn’t dweam of it, Comwade, what with a gweat many of the fairwer sex mightily enamoured of that particular piece of artillewy. But all this thweatening ain’t necessawy, don’t cha know? We are members of the Normalist movement sent to wescue Norma Williams.’
‘Norma don’t need no rescuing, mate. Me an’ Odette will do all the fuckin’ rescuing—’
‘It’s okay, Burlesque,’ said Norma quietly, ‘I think these people are friends.’ She gave Shelley a sidelong look. ‘Friends after a fashion, that is. We can go now, Percy,’ and a relieved-looking Shelley rapped the silver pommel of his ebony cane on the ceiling of the steamer and the driver eased it out into the traffic.
Burlesque had to marvel at Norma’s powers of recovery: with the exception of her red eyes – bloodshot if he wasn’t mistaken, which he supposed was to be expected given that she was a Daemon – she’d quite shaken off the effects of the gas attack and had regained her composure. There was a certainty about her that Burlesque found strangely reassuring, but then, he supposed, he was in the presence of the Messiah.
Norma turned to the big blond bugger lounging in the corner of the steamer. ‘You say you’re with the US Army, Corporal Moynahan?’
He nodded. ‘That’s correct, Miss Williams, I’m a proud member of the Fighting Fifth, the best combat regiment in the whole of the Real World. My platoon has been searching for you for almost nine months. You sure as hell have been a tricky dame to track, Miss Williams.’ He pushed a hand out in Norma’s direction which, after a moment’s hesitation, she shook.
‘Well, you’ve found me now so I guess it’s better late than never. I’ve been waiting a long time for the cavalry to arrive to take me home.’ Norma nodded to the really quite dishy girl sitting next to Moynahan. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Corporal?’
‘This is Miss Maria Steele … or more officially, Sister Maria of the exiled Sacred and All-Seeing Convent of Visual Virgins.’
‘You’re an auralist?’ Burlesque wasn’t very keen on auralists. The word was they could read a bloke’s aura and from that tell what he was thinking … though with a bird as good-looking as Maria this wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. One look at her and blokes would only be thinking one thing: what’d she look like with her kit off?
‘I am indeed an auralist, sir, and I am pleased to use my talents to assist in the extraction of the Messiah from the clutches of Heydrich.’
Norma nodded her appreciation.
‘Mr Percy Shelley, I’ve a feeling you already know,’ continued Moynahan.
‘Yeah, I know Percy Bysshe Shelley,’ Norma said, glaring angrily at the man.
‘Please, Norma, do not judge me too harshly,’ replied Shelley. ‘I did what I did to pwotect you. I would never, ever, do anything that would endanger you.’
Norma eyed him suspiciously. ‘Okay, we’ll keep this conversation on hold, Percy, but you better believe that I’ll be watching you like a hawk.’
‘Before we go any further, Norma,’ continued Shelley, ‘I’d be much obliged if you’d ask your chums to stop pointing their pistols at my gwoin. They’re making me a tad nervous.’
Norma laughed. ‘It’s okay, Burlesque … Odette … I think we can put the guns away.’
‘Thou art Burlesque Bandstand and Odette Aroca?’ gasped Sister Maria.
As was her wont whenever there was a pretty girl involved, Odette stuck her oar in. ‘Oui, je suis Odette Aroca et c’est mon homme, Burlesque Bandstand.’
The pretty girl smiled and replied in French. ‘Pardon, Mademoiselle Aroca, je ne vous ai pas reconnue. On ne vous reconnaît pas du tout sur vos photos qui sont exposées sur les couvertures des magazines à sensation.’ (‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Aroca, I did not recognise you. You do not look like the pictures shown of you on the covers of the penny dreadfuls.’)
‘Wot? Wot’s this tart saying?’ Burlesque hated it when the conversation descended into Frog.
Norma interpreted. ‘She’s saying that you don’t look much like the pictures shown on the covers of penny dreadfuls.’
‘Wot pictures?’
Here Sister Maria brought a well-thumbed paperback out of her bag. ‘These pictures. Thou and Mademoiselle Odette art legendary freedom fighters, Monsieur Bandstand, and the stories of thy adventures, bestsellers. I am especially enamoured of the tale which relates how thou causèd the Awful Tower to come crashing down on the head of Beria, that most terrible of men.’
‘Gor, look at that, Odette, me and yous is famous.’ The cover of the book showed a man and a woman – a very slim man and a woman, which Burlesque ascribed to artistic licence – each brandishing a devil-may-care look and a brace of pistols. ‘Well, it don’t look a lot like me, but the artist got me titfer right,’ and he tapped the bowler hat that was perched on the back of his head. He handed the book to Odette, who studied the cover and then scowled.
‘Merde! This is, ’ow you say, Burlesque, the mostly fucking terrible. My ’air, it ’as none ov the waves for which I am mostly famous. Quand je trouve l’artiste, je lui arracherai les couilles!’ (‘When I find the artist I’ll rip his bollocks off!’)
‘Oh, it ain’t that bad, me darling. ’E’s caught your charms right, ain’t ’e? I like the way they’re peeking out from under your ripped dress. Real sexy.’
‘Look, when you two have finished admiring yourselves, maybe we can get back to the business at hand,’ Norma scolded. ‘Perhaps, now everyone has been introduced, you could tell me what’s your plan, Corporal?’
‘I think it would be better if you call me Dean, Miss Williams.’
‘Very well, Dean it is.’
‘Okey-dokey. And with your permission I’ll call you Norma.’ A nod from the girl. ‘My orders, Norma, are to get you hotfoot back to the JAD so you can use the Portal to return to the Real World. Problem is that I think this is going to be a mite tougher now that we’ve put a burr up Heydrich’s ass. Everyone and his father’s going to be out looking for a girl who looks like Aaliz Heydrich.’
‘Portal? Wot’s a Portal?’ asked Burlesque.
Moynahan glanced towards Norma, who signalled him to continue. ‘It’s a means by which Daemons can move between the Real World – your Spirit World – and the Demi-Monde. Originally there was a Portal in each of the Sectors of the Demi-Monde but now there’s only one left … the one in the JAD, which is where I’m intent on taking Norma.’
‘Then the quicker we get to the docks the better. I think the Checkya will already be looking for me. And in the mean time, Dean, why don’t you tell me how you and your pals came to be at the Crystal Palace tonight?’
1:02
London, the Rookeries
The Demi-Monde: 85th Day of Summer, 1005
The assassination of Comrade-Commissar Beria and the success of the Normalist movement gave a fillip to opponents of Heydrich’s rule within the ForthRight. But their increasing agitation was matched by a crackdown on dissidents by the Checkya, who moved to neuter protests by seeding agents provocateurs into the ranks of anti-Heydrich organisations. Such were the numbers of cryptos mobilised by the Checkya that the Summer of 1005 is remembered as the ‘Season of Suspicion’, the time when it was impossible to trust anybody.
The Fall of the ForthRight: Percy Bysshe Shelley, FreeWill Press
FIVE DAYS EARLIER …
Percy Bysshe Shelley was not
built to be a fugitive. He had not been ordained by Fate to live alone as an isolated thing. He was a gregarious man. He liked carousing. He liked the finer things in life. All these were denied a fugitive. As a fugitive he had to regularly shift rooms, which entailed his laundry not being done properly; had to eschew his favourite restaurants, tailors and barbers; and had to forgo the pleasures of communing with the more accommodating women of his acquaintance. But the most trying aspect of this new life was that he was unable to publish his poetry, and thus he went through his days troubled by the consideration that nothing wilted faster than laurels that were being rested upon. Soon he would be forgotten, and this was the unkindest cut of all. Shelley hated the thought of being deposited on the dung heap of history.
Life as a fugitive was, in a word, beastly. So beastly that now, after almost three Seasons of ducking and diving, he was utterly disenchanted with the whole sorry experience. But disenchanted or not, the problem remained that the Checkya were indefatigable in their efforts to apprehend him and hence, if he did not wish to spend the rest of his life chained to a wall in Wewelsburg Castle, he had to duck and dive with alacrity. Since his contretemps with Comrade Crowley, he was one of the most wanted men in the Demi-Monde, with a thousand-guinea reward on his head. This being the case, it was better to be free and on the flee than captured and on the rack.
There were times, though, when even the threat of incarceration wasn’t enough to overcome the tedium and spiritual degradation associated with wearing unremarkable clothes, eating in second-class restaurants and sleeping on the couches of reluctant friends and less-than-enthusiastic admirers. At such times Shelley threw caution to the wind, would don his very best – if sadly ill-pressed – evening suit, and sally forth for a night of dissipation and debauchery. Which was why tonight he found himself in the best box in the Canterbury Theatre with a jolly doxy on his arm and a rather superior bottle of pink champagne cooling in an ice bucket.