The Demi-Monde: Summer

by Rod Rees

  ‘No Fun at All: An Enquiry into the Murky World of the Fun/Funs’: Odette Aroca, The New York PollyGazette

  Oddie had no idea how many people were trying to get into the Plaza to hear Norma Williams speak that evening but it was a lot. Tens of thousands of them, in fact, and as the Fun/Funs seemed determined to log the names of everyone wishing to attend the jamboree, there was a bottleneck of mammoth proportions around the auditorium’s gates. But finally, after judicious use of her elbows and boots, Oddie managed to squirm her way through the chaos to the front of the queue. There she was faced by a line of Fun/Fun volunteers seated at a long bench table who, as best she could judge in the confusion, were intent on scanning the dog tags – the ID dockets that everyone wore to confirm they were a bona fide citizen of the USA – of all would-be attendees into a Polly.

  She nearly baulked. She had an instinctive reluctance to having her dog tag peeped; the government knew enough about her without her volunteering information.

  But even as she stood debating how to avoid being scanned, there was a surge in the tide of people pressing behind her, and she found herself being rammed up against the table and staring into the face of a guy possessed of too many zits and not enough hair. What he had though was a Valknut badge which signalled that he was a Fun/Fun … that and an attitude.

  ‘You got an invitation?’ the volunteer yelled at her. The noise of the crowd was deafening.

  ‘No, I thought everyone was welcome.’

  ‘Yeah, they are. It’s just that so many people have shown up that we can’t let them all in. Fire regulations. So, no invite, no entry.’

  Oddie wasn’t in the mood to be given the go-by: Norma Williams and her Fun/Funs had the makings of a big story and she was determined it would be her big story. ‘You gotta be pulling my chain. I’ve just spent an hour being crunched up and touched up while I waited to get to the head of the queue, so don’t hit me with all this “you can’t come in” shit.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Fuck that, where’s your boss?’

  ‘Look, honey, it won’t do any good.’

  Oh yes it will. Oddie knew from experience that making a loud and very public demonstration of unhappiness was a great way of coercing any organisation into doing things her way. The squeaky wheel was the one that got the grease.

  She raised her voice. She had a big voice, but then she was a big girl. ‘Don’t fucking “honey” me. And dig this: either you get your boss over here or I’m gonna lean across this table and shove that Polly so far up your ass you’ll be spending the next week scanning the back of your fucking teeth.’

  ‘Wot seems to be the trouble?’

  A big guy in a ‘The Fun/Funs are a NonAddictive Substance’ T-shirt, speaking with an English accent, and wearing a name tag that read ‘Burl Standing’, sauntered up alongside the spotty volunteer. His eyes met Oddie’s.

  Kismet.

  They stood and watched Norma Williams perform together, side by side at the edge of the stage. And it was a performance. Oh, it might have been billed as ‘An Opportunity to Hear about the Fun/Funs’ but in reality it was a rally where Norma Williams could be worshipped by her disciples.

  She’d seen pictures and PollyCasts of Norma Williams – but then who hadn’t? – and had prepared herself to be disappointed. But she wasn’t. Sure the girl was smaller than she seemed on the Polly, but then all celebrities were smaller in real life. She was, though, prettier than Oddie had expected and the white lace dress she was wearing was short enough to show off her famously fine legs and tight enough to describe her famously fine curves. And her mass of blonde hair – backcombed to within an inch of its life – flared like a halo around her head when she stood in front of the lights that illuminated the centre of the stage.

  But small, beautiful and perfectly formed though Norma Williams was, these attributes were as nothing when compared with the force of personality she radiated. Just standing there acknowledging the cheers and the wild applause of the ten thousand people packed into the hall, Oddie knew Norma Williams was a real, bona fide, twenty-four-carat Star. She had met a load of ‘PollyCelebrities’ in her time as a stringer for The New York PollyGazette and with only a few notable exceptions she had been totally underwhelmed. But just occasionally she had met one possessed of that most elusive quality, charisma. These were the true charismatics … they had ‘It’.

  And Norma Williams had ‘It’ in truckloads. So much so that all the carefully choreographed lighting and stage backgrounds and all the music accompanying her arrival on stage were unnecessary. She was one of those rare individuals who could walk unannounced onto a bare stage and still dominate the theatre and her audience.

  The problem Oddie had with people possessed of ‘It’ was that invariably they were complete and utter bastards who believed it was their God-given right to be treated as ‘special’. Oddie had the sneaking feeling that Norma Williams would be a mega-bitch.

  ‘Ain’t she wonderful?’ yelled Burl into her left ear, giving her a nudge for emphasis.

  ‘Yeah, wonderful.’

  And unbelievably fucking dangerous.

  Norma spoke for just fifteen minutes, long enough to give what she said substance but not long enough to bore. Like the good performer she was, she left her audience clamouring for more. And it had been an interesting speech as it contained two new announcements of Fun/Fun policy. The first was that the use of the Get-Me-Straighter Meter would be extended outside the USA, with certain selected operatives visiting England, Germany, Russia and the Ukraine where they would free a million unfortunates from their addictions. The second was that in six months there would be a ‘Gathering’ in the Nevada desert when all the Fun/Fun converts and their parents would be invited to commune with God and to give thanks for their deliverance from addiction.

  The speechifying at an end, Norma took a moment to stand centre stage bowing and waving. Not that Oddie paid much attention; she was distracted by the need to check that her Polly had recorded the girl’s performance correctly, and as a result, didn’t notice that Norma Williams had come to stand slap-bang in front of her. It was only then that she realised what a big duke Burl was in the Fun/Funs. Even the hyper-nervous security guards were wary of him, and whilst they bustled everyone else backstage away from the girl, they left Burl – and Oddie – where they were.

  ‘So what did you think, Burl?’ Norma asked as she towelled the back of her neck.

  Oddie almost laughed at how artfully it was done. Using the towel gave the girl an excuse to raise her arms, which in turn caused her short dress to rise even further up her thighs and to press even harder across her tits. She was playing her looks and sex appeal for all they were worth, and from the expression on his face Burl was mesmerised by this little exercise in coquettishness.

  ‘You wos wonderful, Norma, really wonderful. You wos great.’

  The girl beamed her thanks and then nodded towards Oddie. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Burl?’

  ‘Oh, yus, ov course: this is Oddie. Oddie, this is Norma Williams.’

  The two girls shook hands. ‘“Oddie”?’ asked Norma.

  ‘It’s short for Odette, my parents are French.’

  ‘And your surname?’

  ‘Aroca,’ she answered and it was then that she realised that Norma hadn’t released her hand.

  ‘Aroca …’ Norma murmured, taking a moment to digest this piece of information. ‘I’ve been told about another girl called Aroca. She’s an enemy of my father.’

  ‘Not me, Norma, I’m a great admirer of the President. I believe him to be a real beacon of liberty in the world. What he’s doing to roll back the PanOptika Surveillance System is vital if we’re to have a free and fair society.’

  Norma frowned and released Oddie’s hand. ‘Of course … that father.’

  That father? Weird.

  She smiled a bleak, empty smile that sent trickles of fear skipping down Oddie’s spine. ‘I have a different vie
w of surveillance, Miss Aroca. I am of the firm opinion that surveillance is vital if we are to ensure the security of our great country and to protect its citizens from terrorists, malcontents and other enemies of the state. Only those who have something to hide – something criminal, antisocial or which transgresses the word of God – object to surveillance; good people have nothing to fear. As ParaDigm’s advert says: PanOptika watches out for the good guys by watching out for the bad guys.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Miss Williams—’

  Oddie didn’t get to finish, being interrupted by a very flustered-looking aide thrusting a piece of paper into Norma Williams’s hand. For several long silent seconds she examined what was written there and then looked up to study Oddie very carefully. ‘You’re a clever girl, Miss Aroca, perhaps even a little too clever. My aide has just interrogated ABBA and been advised that you’re a reporter for The New York PollyGazette. The Gazette has been somewhat antagonistic towards the Fun/Funs so I’m not inclined to prolong this conversation.’

  ‘Maybe you should, Miss Williams. Maybe you should try to convert a Doubting Thomas – or even a Doubting Oddie.’

  ‘I find people possessed of your degree of entrenched liberalism, Miss Aroca, incapable of seeing the light.’

  ‘Or perhaps it’s your arguments that are suspect. Maybe it’s not me who can’t see but you who can’t convince.’

  Norma Williams’s lips contracted into a thin, angry line. ‘I think you should go now, Miss Aroca.’ She turned to Burl. ‘Get this girl out of my sight and don’t ever, ever, bring someone who hasn’t been pre-vetted near me again. Do you understand, Burl?’ The way the colour drained out of Burl’s face indicated that he understood very well indeed.

  ‘Jesus, I ain’t never seen her so mad before. You should’ve told me you wos a reporter. Norma ‘ates reporters.’

  They were sitting in a Bubble Bar a couple of blocks down from the Plaza. Oddie had chosen it because each of its tables was equipped with a ‘bubble’ guaranteed to defeat eyeSpies and hence allow those sitting at the table to talk confident that their conversation wouldn’t be the subject of cyber-eavesdropping. Her philosophy was that when you were intent on pissing off a company as powerful as ParaDigm CyberResearch, you could never be too careful.

  ‘I told ‘er that it wos all a mistake, that you got in because you wosn’t scanned properly.’ Burl took a swig of his beer. ‘Anyways, I guess that’s my trip back to London down the tubes.’

  ‘London?’ asked Oddie with an encouraging smile.

  ‘Yus, I was gonna be part ov the delegation taking the Get-Me-Straighter Meter to England. There wos to be five hundred ov us going an’ we each had to save a thousand addicts. We’ve got their names on a list.’

  Oddie felt her journalistic antennae starting to twitch. ‘How could you have their names?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Burl with a shrug, ‘but we ‘ave. The badges ‘ave been made for ‘em and everyfing.’

  ‘Badges?’

  Burl dug inside his shirt and pulled out a small circular medallion that he had hung around his neck on a silver chain. ‘This shows that you’ve bin saved from addiction.’ He leant across the table so that Oddie could get a better look.

  The medallion was a simple affair with a Valknut – the emblem of the Fun/Funs – embossed on one side and a symbol of a hand embossed on the other. ‘What’s with the hand?’

  ‘It shows that Jesus has held out his loving hand to you and you’ve had the courage to grasp it. We’re told that we’re never to take it off.’

  As she peered at the medallion, Oddie was suddenly conscious that her face was only inches from Burl’s. ‘I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble, Burl.’

  Burl’s big blue eyes blinked. ‘Don’t matter … I like you.’

  ‘I like you too, Burl,’ and with that she dipped her head forward and kissed him.

  2

  Venice

  The Demi-Monde: 1st Day of Summer, 1005

  Copy of PigeonGram message sent by Josephine Baker, 1st day of Summer, 1005

  Senior Prelate de Sade, the Supreme Head of the Church of IMmanualism, gazed out over the crowd packed into the Sala, a crowd comprising the haute-monde of Venice, all of them waiting expectantly – reverently, almost – for the newly crowned Doge IMmanual to speak. With great difficulty de Sade stifled a smug smile of satisfaction: these, after all, were the same bastards who just a few months ago had reviled him, ridiculed him and voted for him to be exiled from Venice. But now …

  Now he was the second-most important person in the whole of Venice, outranked only by Her Most Reverend Excellency, Doge IMmanual I. Now all these arrogant swine had to bend their knee to him.

  When the death of Doge Catherine-Sophia had been announced there had never been any doubt as to who would ascend the throne: the people wouldn’t have accepted anyone other than the Lady IMmanual, not after the Miracle of the Canal. Recognising inevitability when they saw it, the Council of Ten had hurried through the paperwork and now, less than twelve hours after the death of the previous incumbent, Doge IMmanual was firmly in control of Venice.

  De Sade turned and bowed to the new Doge, signalling that it was time for her to address the crowd.

  The girl rose to her feet and stepped towards the front of the stage. In acknowledgement of the importance of the occasion she had chosen to wear a diaphanous silver robe that showed off her wonderful body – all her wonderful body – in a quite splendid fashion. She was an ineffably beautiful woman and one accomplished in the arts of fiduciary sex, so much so that her audience gazed at her enraptured, ensnared by her beauty.

  ‘All-powerful ABBA,’ Doge IMmanual called out in a firm and commanding voice, ‘I pray that you will give me the strength and the courage to guide the people of Venice and of the Demi-Monde to Rapture and to victory over the Beast. With this ring,’ and here she took a large golden ring from where it lay on a cushion offered to her by a pageboy and placed it on the middle finger of her left hand, ‘I wed the CitiZens of Venice to the Word of ABBA and to the Truth of IMmanualism.’

  A choir of castrati began to trill away behind the Lady, which, de Sade decided, was, in retrospect, over-egging the ceremonial pudding.

  ‘Members of the Council of Ten, delegates of the Grand Assembly, Patricians of Venice, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, some of you doubted that I have been sent by ABBA to lead the people of the Demi-Monde, but now let there be no doubt. You have asked for a miracle, and I have granted you a miracle. I pledged that Venice would be kept safe from the ravages of the ForthRight, and I have kept Venice safe. The time of doubt and dissension is over: I am the Messiah. Know that any defiance of the Word of ABBA and the teachings of IMmanualism is a device of the Beast by which he spreads mistrust and confusion. Such defiance can no longer be tolerated. Mark this: those who are not with me, body and soul, are my enemies.’ She looked around at her audience. ‘So I say to you that in this, the most uncertain of worlds, there is one precious certainty: the word of the Doge IMmanual. Follow me and I will bring you safe to Rapture.’

  De Sade waited for the applause to die and to ensure that the Lady had finished her speechifying, then made an announcement of his own. ‘His Highness, Selim the Grim, Grand Vizier to the court of His HimPerial Majesty Shaka Zulu, comes to honour Doge IMmanual on the day of her coronation.’

  And with that the great villain Selim strode into the hall, flanked by a veritable crowd of flunkies. He halted in the middle of the audience chamber. ‘Doge IMmanual, I bring greetings from His HimPerial Majesty Shaka Zulu.’

  ‘Welcome to my Court, Grand Vizier Selim, and please convey my felicitations to His HimPerial Majesty. But I would ask, has His Majesty considered the proposition I put to him through your good offices?’

  There was a buzz of conversation around the hall, the fools in the Council having obviously not realised that Doge IMmanual had been preparing to take office for weeks. The ‘proposition’ she was talking about was the
result of many hours of long – and very secret – negotiations between her and Selim that had followed their first meeting in the Galerie des Anciens.

  ‘I am commanded to convey to you word that the army of NoirVille is ready to stand shoulder to shoulder with the fighters of Venice in their struggle with the Beast, Reinhard Heydrich.

  ‘And in exchange I will deliver to NoirVille, by the last day of Summer, the secrets of how Aqua Benedicta is manufactured.’

  There was another flurry of excited conversation. The formula for Aqua Benedicta was one of the nuJus’ most closely guarded secrets. Getting his hands on a supply of the anticoagulant was the only reason Shaka had agreed to the establishing of the nuJu home in NoirVille, as having exclusive access to the additive had made NoirVille pre-eminent in the Demi-Monde with regards to the trading of blood. If Doge IMmanual was to reveal the nuJus’ secret then Shaka would have no further use for them … she would be condemning the two million of them living in the JAD – the nuJu Autonomous District set in the middle of NoirVille – to death.

  ‘I take it your holy men have overcome their antipathy to NoirVille being aligned with a Sector ruled by a woman?’ Here she looked to the figure of His HimPerial Reverence the Grand Mufti Mohammed al-Mahdi, NoirVille’s holiest Man, skulking behind Selim, but he refused to meet her eyes, preferring that Selim spoke for him.

  ‘His HimPerial Majesty Shaka Zulu demanded that our priests go into conclave to consider this spiritual question. This they have done, and they have come to the sage conclusion that as you are the Messiah, you transcend gender and hence an alliance with Venice does not violate the tenets of HimPerialism.’