The Demi-Monde: Summer

by Rod Rees

  Very neat, decided de Sade. According to them, the Doge IMmanual wasn’t a woeMan, but rather ABBA-made Solidified Astral Ether. He stole a glance at the Doge and struggled not to laugh. Standing there clad in her transparent robe, he had to marvel that any man – zadnik or otherwise – could summon up sufficient intellectual or religious flexibility to deny that she was all woman.

  Doge IMmanual nodded. ‘I am pleased to hear these words. I am a great admirer of His HimPerial Majesty Shaka Zulu, who has welded the disparate people of NoirVille into one tribe. Now, Venice and NoirVille must bring the métèque – the Outsiders – to heel. And in acknowledgement of his loyalty I, as the Messiah, will throw my cloak of invulnerability about his HimPis. They are now the chosen of ABBA.’

  The Doge waved to a steward standing to one side of the chamber, who strode forward holding before him a golden sceptre surmounted by the entwined runes of laguz sinister and laguz dexter. ‘This sceptre is a symbol that the HimPis of NoirVille are under the protection of the Messiah and of ABBA. And soon they will march to victory in the Demi-Monde. Soon we will begin the Mfecane … the Crushing.’

  Selim took the sceptre and knelt. ‘I accept this on behalf of NoirVille. The HimPis of NoirVille stand ready for your command.’

  ‘And what of the fugitive doge-icide, Vanka Maykov, the murderer of Doge Catherine-Sophia? Have you taken him yet? I understand he is attempting to enter the JAD.’

  Maykov again? Why, de Sade wondered, was the Doge so anxious about Maykov? The man’s capture and execution seemed to have an urgency his low status hardly warranted.

  ‘Agents of the HimPeril are searching for him even as we speak, Your Excellency.’

  A scowl from the Doge. ‘I am displeased. Surely, for a ruler as powerful as Lord Shaka, finding one Blank is not difficult.’

  By way of a reply the Grand Vizier gestured to one of his lieutenants, who ushered a tall and very broad-shouldered Shade boy forward.

  ‘Maykov will be found, Your Excellency. But, in atonement for the dilatoriness of the HimPeril, His HimPerial Majesty brings you your brother.’

  The boy stepped into the halo of light cast by one of the great candelabras that lit the Sala and gave an arrogant wave of his hand. ‘Yo, Sis,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. Septimus Bole sends his regards, and says if yo’ don’t stop fucking around with miracles and shit then he’s gonna get real hot and heavy on yo’ ass.’

  ‘Billy?’ gasped a stunned Doge IMmanual.

  3

  NoirVille

  The Demi-Monde: 2nd Day of Summer, 1005 … 01:00

  Of all the secret organisations in the Demi-Monde – of which there are many – perhaps the most elusive is the Code Noir. Rumour has it – and there are no facts about the Code Noir, just gossip, innuendo and speculation – that the Code Noir was formed around 975 AC by a group of powerful WhoDoo mambos to oppose the coming to power of the WhoDoo Queen, Marie Laveau (957-984 AC). Reputedly the mightiest mambo ever seen in the Demi-Monde, Marie Laveau was considered by many of her disciples to be the reincarnation of Lilith, a belief supported by her attempts to take control of NoirVille and the vicious manner in which she disposed of her rivals. Marie Laveau was assassinated in 984 AC, a killing ascribed to the Code Noir.

  Trying to Pin WhoDoo Down: Colonel Percy Fawcett, Shangri-La Books

  A crack of a rifle, then …

  Zing!

  A bullet whizzed six inches or so beyond Vanka’s left ear, but he didn’t even flinch. He was too depressed to flinch. Flinching was for people who cared if they lived or died.

  But some residual, autonomic instinct for self-preservation persuaded him to crouch lower behind the gunwale of the steamboat that was chugging him across the Nile towards the sanctuary of the JAD. This same instinct provoked him to pull the collar of his mackintosh up to try – in a futile sort of way – to deflect the rain that was lashing down on him. Bang on the stroke of midnight on the first day of Summer the heavens had opened, the monsoon rains had come and they hadn’t stopped coming since. Not that Vanka cared. He was past caring.

  He’d always scoffed at the plots of some of the soppier penny dreadfuls that related the anguish suffered when a true love was lost, but he wasn’t scoffing now. His soul was breaking.

  Correction: broken.

  He felt empty inside and even the effort to pull his waterproof around his shoulders was too much for his fretted spirits. He actually welcomed the chilled numbness the teeming rain was driving into his body … he just wished his mind could be numbed too.

  He just wished he was dead.

  Crack, crack.

  Zing, zing.

  Two more bullets whined overhead, seeking to oblige.

  ‘Dis am de last time ah do a gig fo’ dem Code Noir cats,’ moaned the Shade at the helm of the steamboat. ‘Ah don’t care how much foldin’ dem cats lay on yours truly, nuffing is worth de bad cats cappin’ a barrel full o’ buckshot up ma ass.’

  Vanka stared at the man in an uninterested sort of way. He knew the Signori di Notte – Venice’s secret police – were after him, he just didn’t give a shit whether they caught him or not. Not after what had happened in Venice. He’d gone to the Doge’s Palace to plead with Ella, the woman he loved – what an admission that was for the fancy-free Vanka Maykov to make – to tell her that he wasn’t her enemy and that how she was acting was wrong, but instead of the reconciliation he’d hoped for he had found her screwing a guy called Casanova. The sight of her using the man – and he had no doubt as to who was using who in that little tableau – was seared into his memory. It had drained his soul of all happiness.

  Crack.

  Zing!

  ‘Hey, man,’ shouted the Shade, ‘’ow ’bout yo’ gettin’ up off yo’ sorry Blank ass an’ firing back at dem Signori di Notte bastards. Make wiv de dissuasive bang, bang, banging an’ such. Don’t yo’ dig dat it’s yos dey’re chasing?’

  Vanka didn’t have the strength. He’d used up what little he had escaping from the Doge’s Palace and then, with the help of Josephine Baker, ducking and diving through the backstreets of Venice to the docks. That’s where the Code Noir had a boat – and a Shade captain mad enough to run the Nile – waiting to take him to NoirVille. Josephine had bundled him into the boat and had then tried to lure the pursuing bad guys away. Her ruse hadn’t worked.

  The Shade spun around, hauled out his revolver and loosed off two hopeful shots at their pursuers, but given the way the boat was pitching around on the choppy waters of the Nile, Vanka judged the chance of him hitting something to be somewhere between zero and zip.

  ‘C’mon, man,’ the exasperated Shade yelled. ‘Pull yo’self together. De badniks am gettin’ awful close. Get yo’ iron out an’ make wiv de lead fusillade.’

  Vanka just sat there lost in mournful introspection.

  He loved Ella Thomas. She was his everything. Meeting her had given purpose to his whole worthless, directionless, cynical existence. Whilst he didn’t have much of a past – not one that he knew about, anyway – she had given him the hope that he might have a future. But now …

  But now here he was back on the flee, running for his life. He gave a grimace: his life, as far as he could judge, was shit and he’d been served a double helping.

  It had to be a double helping because he hadn’t just been betrayed by the woman he loved, she was now using all her power to have him killed. That’s why Josie had got him out of Venice so quickly and why she was so keen for him to make it to the safety of the JAD. Get to the JAD, she’d told him, and he’d have a place to hide. In the JAD he could keep low and wait for the heat to die down.

  He was so lost in his despair that it hardly registered that the boat had come to a bobbing halt alongside a pier. They’d made it. Almost without thinking he stood up and stepped ashore.

  Immediately the Shade floored the boat’s throttle and steered his steamboat off into the night, screaming, ‘Yo’ one crazy fucking Blank!’ as he went.

  Crack
, crack.

  Zing, zing!

  Like a sleepwalker, Vanka climbed the slick steps to the jetty, ignoring the shots from the chasing Venetians and the bullets caroming off the stone walls. He should, he supposed, be grateful that they were such lousy shots, but somehow he couldn’t raise the energy. But deep down he knew he had to find the energy: he was, after all, accused of murdering Doge Catherine-Sophia and, as Josephine Baker had informed him, he did have both the Signori di Notte and the HimPeril – their NoirVillian counterparts – hunting him.

  Crack, crack.

  Zing, zing!

  Miraculously he got to the top of the steps without having his head blown off. Ever efficient, Josie had arranged to have a pedicab waiting for him, though the driver seemed less than enthused to be the target of so much hostile attention.

  ‘Get aboard, you Blank bastard!’ he shouted as he ducked away from the flying lead. ‘Don’t yo dig dat dem cats is trying to drill yo?’

  Unmoved by the man’s entreaties, Vanka waded across the rain-flooded street to the pedicab, climbed aboard and then slumped back into its rickety passenger seat. Even before he’d settled, the driver was standing on his pedals, desperately trying to get the pedicab moving away from their pursuers.

  It was as well he did. The chasing Signori di Notte agents emerged at the top of the staircase leading from the river and let loose a flurry of rifle fire. There was a loud bang and a bullet ricocheted off the side of the pedicab.

  ‘An’ now ah’m gonna be stiffed fo’ a new paint job.’ The driver looked into his mirror. ‘Ah, fuck, dem cats has only gone and commandeered a steamer.’

  The driver pedalled harder, redoubling his efforts to outrun the pursuing agents, but Vanka hardly noticed. He just sat back and listened to the rain rat-tat-tatting on the tin roof over his head.

  Fuck, he was fed up.

  The carapace of despair that had been insulating Vanka from the danger he was in was finally shattered when the frantic driver swung the pedicab around a corner on only two of the vehicle’s three wheels forcing an oncoming steamer to make an emergency stop. As the steamer’s head-lanterns washed over the wall of a nearby tenement, Vanka found himself looking at … himself.

  VANKA MAYKOV

  FOUL ASSASSIN OF DOGE CATHERINE-SOPHIA

  REWARD OF ONE THOUSAND GUINEAS

  MAY BE TAKEN DEAD OR ALIVE.

  Fuck, fuck and triple fuck.

  To have got the posters printed and pasted so quickly meant that the Lady IMmanual wanted him caught very, very badly. The survival instincts honed by evading numerous enraged husbands finally kicked in: he pulled his top hat further forward over his face and hoicked his collar up higher, hoping as he did so that the black hair dye, imitation cheek scars and the sacrificing of his precious moustache would render him passably NoirVillian. There were, after all, a lot of Blanks living in NoirVille, a lot of Blanks who espoused HimPerialism.

  The problem was that, in his experience, a reward of one thousand Guineas had a magical effect on the ability of people to see through disguises.

  He tried to shake his negative thinking. He had to keep positive, to keep reminding himself that he had a couple of things going for him: he had Josie and her Code Noir comrades on his side and he had a small fortune sitting in his bank account. If he could get to the JAD safely these in combination should be enough to keep him out of the clutches of the bad guys.

  Should be …

  He had to stay alive! Only by doing this would he have a chance of reclaiming his lost love. That was the thought that rekindled the fire in Vanka’s spirit. Despite everything, he refused to give up the hope that one day the Ella he knew and loved would be returned to him.

  For almost an hour they pedalled through the backstreets of Cairo, always keeping the ominous Sphinx – the most sacred religious shrine of the Shades and the nuJus – to their left, twisting this way and that until the driver was satisfied that they had lost their pursuers. Finally the driver brought the pedicab to a slithering halt at the edge of a large and very crowded plaza. ‘De crossing into de JAD is on de obber side of de square, man. So yo’ jump out real quick, before dem cryptos come an’ start using ma dick as a target.’

  Now came the really dangerous part of Vanka’s escape, the bit when he had to get through CheckPoint Charlie, through the JAD Wall and into the safety of the JAD.

  After disembarking from the pedicab – which took off in a rush – Vanka spent a moment getting his bearings, finally opting to occupy a stairwell looking out over the square leading to the CheckPoint. It was a square packed with a couple of thousand dispirited nuJu refugees who were huddled there waiting for the morning and their chance to enter their HomeLand. These were the flotsam and jetsam of the wars that were ravaging the Demi-Monde, fleeing the death, the turmoil and the persecution that had gripped the world. Forlorn men and women sat around in makeshift camps, guarding their carts and their donkeys piled high with boxes of food, pots and pans, blankets and bedding, and bewildered children. Vanka was surprised: he had read that the NoirVillians were trying to stem this tide, refusing passage across their Sector to nuJus, afraid that they had too many of them settling in the JAD.

  Vanka waited for an hour in the pouring rain, waited until he was sure that there were no HimPeril agents lurking in the shadows that surrounded the square, waited until the Border Guard the Code Noir had put the bite on arrived for his shift.

  Just as he was on the point of despairing, the bastard finally showed up. But still Vanka chose to remain concealed in the darkness of the doorway, reluctant to leave his hiding place, watching as the sod spent ten minutes smoking a fag and chatting with the guard he was relieving. It was only when he was alone in the booth and had settled down to read his newspaper that Vanka made his move.

  *

  Life, decided Border Guard Sorro Anwoo, was mucho de good. He had a great gig scrutinising all the cats who wanted to enter the JAD, a gig that didn’t involve too much heavy lifting and allowed him to invest a lot of time running the numbers in the tenement block he called home. Sure, Border Guards weren’t paid enough to keep a mouse in molasses, but the possibilities for milking a little action on the side were, like, beaucoup de excellent. Sorro hadn’t been in the job more than a month before he realised that whilst most of the nuJu cats trying to haul ass to the JAD didn’t have the correct papers, what they usually did have was pocketfuls of long bread. And as the most desperate of these nuJu runners made their move in the late, late black when Sorro was on duty it was a lean night that didn’t see him heading back to his crib with at least two hundred Guineas of tax-free income warming his wallet. But that, he decided, was chump change compared with what he would make tonight.

  He had been offered a grand – a grand! – to turneth a blind eye when a cat named Jim Tyler showed up at his booth. But that was just chicken feed. That the Code Noir had gone to the trouble to smooth this cat’s road in advance told Sorro two things: the first was that the guy taking the promenade powder was important to the max and the second was that if his friends were willing to pay a grand to get this Tyler item into the JAD then they would be willing to pay two grand.

  So here he was in his booth at three thirty in the morning, idly studying the form guide for the runners in the Istanbul Derby, wrapping himself around a bumper of Solution and just glad to be sitting somewhere cosy and snug outta the rain most grievous, when this real sad sack of a Blank started hammering on his window. He looked real damped out. The only way he could’ve got wetter was if he’d gone swimming in his clothes.

  Sorro eased open the window of his booth a couple of centimetres to allow him to converse with the merman. ‘Sure looks like rain,’ he said in a conversational tone.

  The man didn’t answer, instead he pushed his papers through the slot.

  With agonising deliberation Sorro examined said documents. ‘Yo’ dis “Jim Tyler” item?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the Blank. ‘That’s what it says on the visa. I was told
you’d be expecting me.’

  ‘Ah’m expecting a cat ‘bout one eighty-four tall.’ He looked up and examined the Blank. ‘Check. Black hair. Check, though dey didn’t say nuffin’ ‘bout the hair dye that would be running down de side ob yo’ face. Blue eyes. Check. Seventy kilos …’

  ‘Look, can we get on with this? I’m drowning out here.’

  ‘Gotta make sure yous de right cat now ain’t ah? Cain’t have no badniks skedaddling to the JAD wivout de proper authorisation now can we?’ Sorro took another long slurping guzzle of his Solution and then slowly – very fucking slowly, he didn’t dig this Blank cat’s attitude – lit a cigarette. After a few languid puffs he gave the Blank a smile. ‘Well, ah guess yo’ is de cat dem buddies ov yo’s bin talkin’ to me ‘bout, dem cats who want me to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘And?’ the Blank prompted.

  ‘Trouble is, mah man, they’s paid me to turn wun eye and ah’s got two of dem. So which wun yo’s want me to turn: left or right?’

  ‘How much to turn both?’

  ‘Price is a grand an eye.’

  4

  London: The Rookeries

  The Demi-Monde: 2nd Day of Summer, 1005 … 02:00

  The Heydrich Institute for Natural Sciences in Berlin is famous throughout the Demi-Monde as the foremost centre for enquiry into the functioning of our world and its flora and fauna, indeed the Institute’s work regarding diseases and their control is considered as being without peer. Despite the political upheaval in the ForthRight following the Troubles, the Institute still boasts an unrivalled number of prominent Professors including, inter alia, Josef Mengele, Robert Boyle, Georges Cuvier, Louis Agassiz and Emil Adolf von Behring, each of them preeminent in their field.

  Choosing Your University: ForthRight Press