by Rod Rees
“Spring Eve?”
“Freyja’s Night: the last night of Winter. It is, after Walpurgisnacht, the most magical night in the UnFunDaMentalist calendar. It is the night when Crowley performs his most profound magic. It must be that Aaliz Heydrich is to participate in this year’s Freyja’s Night rituals; these always take place at ExterSteine and must always be completed before dawn. Does this answer your question, my Lady?”
“Yes . . . thank you. And may I wish you and your people every good fortune and every happiness in the Great Beyond.” She looked up and frowned. “I think this is when we say good-bye, Delegate Trotsky. If I am not mistaken, the Boundary Layer is beginning to close.”
TRIXIE STOOD WATCHING AS THE CROWDS THAT MADE UP THE EXODUS trudged deeper and deeper into the Great Beyond. She understood that Trotsky was intent on setting up the first settlement around the Blood Bank situated five miles from the Boundary but there were other, more adventurous spirits who had decided that they wouldn’t settle until they had explored all of the Beyond. These brave souls had already marched over the horizon; the colonization of the Great Beyond had begun.
She felt the looming presence of Wysochi at her side and gave him a wry smile. “I thought you would have gone with the pilgrims, Sergeant. I always had you marked down as the pioneer type, the sort of man who could tame a wilderness.”
A sheepish Wysochi shook his head. “Nah, Colonel, I couldn’t go.”
It took a moment for Trixie to remember who the “colonel” was that Wysochi was referring to. She’d only been given command of the remnants of the WFA half an hour ago. “Now, that does surprise me, Sergeant. There isn’t some girl here in Warsaw who has stolen the heart of the brave and resolute Feliks Wysochi, is there?”
“No . . . of course not.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly. “What about you, Colonel? Weren’t you tempted?”
It was a disturbing question. In fact when she thought about it she realized that she had never for an instant contemplated going, which was odd because up until a few weeks ago the RaTionalist that had been Lady Trixiebell Dashwood would have leapt at the chance to explore the Great Beyond. How things—how she—had changed. “No, my place is here in the Demi-Monde. I’ve got things to do here.”
“Like what?”
“Avenge my father,” she answered automatically, and then realized that she hadn’t actually thought about her father for days . . . for weeks. All she ever seemed to think about was killing SS StormTroopers. “I’ve got to defeat Heydrich and the ForthRight. I’ve got to smash UnFunDaMentalism; I’ve had a bellyful of religion.”
“Good,” said Wysochi. He kicked the ground in an absentminded sort of way. “And what do you make of Ella Thomas?” he asked casually.
Trixie moved nearer to Wysochi so that there would be no danger of their conversation being overheard. “I am never comfortable with religious types, Sergeant, especially those who have performed miracles. It gets the men confused: they don’t know whether they should obey their officers or their god.”
“Still, it’s good for the men to believe that ABBA is on their side.”
“ABBA is one thing, live saints are quite another, especially live saints who go around preaching democracy. And I still have a suspicion that when—if—she gets back to the Spirit World then it will go badly for the Demi-Monde. That Shade Daemon is bad news.”
Wysochi frowned as he pondered on what Trixie was saying. “I see what you mean. So what do you think we should do? She’s very popular with the men; they’re calling her the Messiah.”
“And that’s what makes her so dangerous, Sergeant. We can’t allow her to infect the men with her stupid Daemonic ideas. Things like this democracy of hers . . .” Trixie gave a dismissive laugh. “The last thing I want is for the men to start believing that they have some ABBA-given right to elect their leader. The election of a leader is a fatuous idea and will only result in anarchy and disorder. If the WFA is to survive and the ForthRight is to be defeated we have to unite behind one strong leader.” The way she said this meant there was absolutely no doubt as to whom she saw that strong leader being.
“Then it would be better if Ella Thomas was to . . .” Wysochi left the suggestion hanging.
Trixie smiled. “Death solves all problems, Sergeant: no Messiah, no problem. And I suppose on a battlefield it’s very easy for a live saint to become a much-mourned martyr.”
Wysochi nodded. “Very easy.”
“How many of the WFA are left?” Trixie asked.
“Maybe four thousand, give or take. We’ve lost a thousand holding the Industrial Zone and about a thousand opted to go with Trotsky and the other Pilgrims into the Beyond.”
“From acorns, Sergeant, great oaks do grow. One day people will say that from these four thousand grew the army that defeated the ForthRight and smashed UnFunDaMentalism. But now, Sergeant, we have to make some hard decisions. There are too few of us to hold the Industrial Zone, so the only option is to break out of the Ghetto. That, though, raises the question as to where we go once we do that.”
“The Coven,” Wysochi answered. “Delegate Trotsky received a message by pigeon post from the Empress Wu saying that the Coven will grant all members of the WFA sanctuary. It seems Wu has finally come to understand that it’s impossible to trust Heydrich. The Coven is preparing for war.”
Trixie nodded. “Then that’s where we must go. I guess Clement will take a few days to bring up his reserves before he attacks. In five days’ time, on the first day of Spring, that’s when I reckon he’ll try to take us. And that’s when we’ll break out, on Spring Eve. Clement will never expect that, and maybe with surprise on our side . . .”
The pair of them began to walk toward the building where the rest of the WFA officers were waiting, but ten yards or so before the entrance Trixie stopped, turned to Wysochi and held out her hand. “There may not be time later, Sergeant. I would like to thank you for everything. Without you—”
“There’s no need to thank me, Colonel.”
“Trixie.”
“Trixie.” Wysochi shook the offered hand. “I would do it all again, Trixie, and gladly.”
“You should have gone to the Beyond, Feliks.”
“Not without you, Trixie,” said Wysochi, “not without you.” And as he turned away, Trixie was sure he was blushing.
VANKA TOSSED HIS CIGARETTE DOWN, GROUND THE BUTT UNDER HIS heel and pushed himself away from the pile of crates he had been hiding behind for the past five minutes. He watched as Trixie Dashwood and Sergeant Wysochi disappeared into the building and then gave his head a philosophical shake. Why was it that people always disappointed him?
Chapter 33
The Demi-Monde: 90th Day of Winter, 1004—Spring Eve
I am pleased to announce that following much diligent and painstaking work my team at the Reinhard Heydrich Institute has successfully uncovered the secrets of galvanicEnergy, the solution of which has eluded us for so many years. Although our experimentation regarding the harnessing of this remarkable new energy source is in its infancy, we will be pleased to demonstrate our galvanicEnergy generator—the Faraday Thermopile—to you at your earliest convenience. The Thermopile, which converts heat energy into galvanicEnergy, is now fully tested and has been proven to be both safe and reliable. I trust that after said demonstration you will be moved to release the long-overdue tranche of funds owed to the Institute in order that I might pay my loyal and long-suffering staff.
—LETTER WRITTEN BY PROFESSOR MICHAEL FARADAY TO COMRADE VICE-LEADER BERIA, DATED 17TH DAY OF AUTUMN, 1004
Tonight he would reclaim his title. No longer would he be Comrade Commissar Dashwood. From tonight he would, once again, be Baron Dashwood, Royalist nobleman and officer. The waiting was over.
Tonight he would disrupt Operation Barbarossa by destroying the railway line he had built and bring help to Trixie—hadn’t she been a revelation!—and her beleaguered WFA.
“Are all the men in position, Captain?” the bar
on asked.
“Yes, sir,” said a beaming Crockett, who delighted in his new rank. “Sergeant Cassidy has seven of our best men—all veterans of the Troubles—stationed on the Odessa side of the Reinhard Heydrich Bridge. He has orders to derail the train before it picks up speed after crossing the bridge.”
“How many men do we have to take the internment camp?”
“Twenty, sir. I’ve included a number of Poles, sir, officers cashiered out of the army in the purge that followed the Dabrowski debacle.”
“Good thinking, Crockett.” And it was good thinking; the baron had been more than a little concerned about the reception he would get from the Polish slave workers when he came to free them. To have a few Poles on his side wouldn’t be a bad thing. He took a deep breath. “And so, let’s get to it. And may ABBA be with you . . . with all of us.”
AFTER AN UNEVENTFUL JOURNEY THROUGH THE ROOKERIES—WITH it being Spring Eve, even the most dutiful of soldiers relaxed their watch a little—Cassidy brought the stolen steamer carrying the baron and his party to the Reinhard Heydrich Railway Bridge a little after seven in the evening.
Spring Eve: the Time of Brotherhood and Goodwill Toward Men, but Sergeant Bob Cassidy and his men showed precious little of either toward the poor drunken unfortunates who were guarding the railway bridge. Even as the guards raised their glasses in a festive toast, so they were dispensed with in a flurry of shots.
Once the bridge was secure, Cassidy was about his business. He waved his band of ruffians out of the shadows where they had been lurking and into position to await the arrival of the military transport train scheduled to cross the bridge in just an hour’s time.
The operation had gone so smoothly that all that was left for the baron to do was to shake Cassidy’s hand, to wish him luck, and to remind him—for at least the fifth time—that he shouldn’t use more than two hundred pounds of explosives to derail the train. It was difficult for the baron to establish whether Cassidy took his instructions seriously as all the man’s attention was directed to the rifling of a dead guard’s pockets.
With a shrug the baron marched his ragtag crew off toward the internment camp. It took them fifteen minutes to get to the camp and, just as he had promised, Crockett’s little army was there waiting for them.
The baron thought it indicative of how a totalitarian regime like the ForthRight so ruthlessly eliminated any spark of initiative in its soldiers that when he strode up to the camp’s gatehouse no one questioned his demand to see the camp commandant. Men in uniform presenting themselves at strange hours and issuing nonsensical orders were part and parcel of military life in the ForthRight; it was better to obey orders than to question them.
The commandant, his mind doused with Spring Eve goodwill and Solution, attended the baron five minutes later, his eyes heavy and his shirt hanging out of his trousers. “Comrade Commissar?” began the bewildered man. “I had heard—”
The camp commandant stopped in mid-sentence. By the baron’s reckoning he was so befuddled by booze and blood that he probably couldn’t quite remember what he had heard. The last thing he wanted to do was insult a senior member of the Party by repeating the slanderous rumor that the comrade commissar had been pronounced a nonNix and an Enemy of the People.
“All a misunderstanding,” said the baron, waving away the commandant’s suspicions. “I have been reappointed by the Leader as the man responsible for the operation of the rail line. There has been a subsidence on one of the embankments and we desperately need men to help shore it up before the arrival of the first of the military expresses.”
“How many men do you need, Comrade Commissar?”
“I would be grateful if you would parade all the Polish workers,” ordered the baron.
“All of them?” There was real concern in the camp commandant’s voice. “There’re almost five thousand of the bastards, Comrade Commissar, and it being Spring Eve I’ve only got twenty men on duty. These Poles are desperate men and twenty guards aren’t nearly enough to control them. Perhaps it would be best to parade them in chains?”
“That won’t be necessary.” The baron gave the commandant a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Comrade Commandant, I have brought twenty of my own men with me to supplement your guards.”
The baron nodded toward Crockett, who came to attention and saluted smartly when the commandant’s gaze alighted on him. “Comrade Captain Crockett at your service, sir, late of Wellington’s Wranglers. My men are able soldiers, sir; they won’t let you down.”
The Poles—grumbling and bad-tempered—were paraded just twenty minutes later. Running an eye over the shuffling, complaining ranks, the baron decided that the commandant had a right to be worried; they certainly looked a mutinous mob. The Militia guards eyed them warily and kept their M4s pointed in their direction.
“I would like to address the workers,” announced the baron.
The commandant looked at the baron with surprise. Nobody addressed the Polacks; you screamed at them and you kicked them, but you didn’t address them.
Even as the commandant was turning this oddity over in his Solution-muddled mind, the baron moved to stand directly in front of the bedraggled and decidedly unhappy workers. “Polish men,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “as I speak to you, the forces of the ForthRight are moving to crush the last of the Warsaw Free Army.”
There were growls of anger from the ranks. The camp commandant drew his Mauser and cocked it. It was obvious from the look on his face that in his opinion the sooner all Poles were crushed the better.
“Only a few thousand brave soldiers of the Warsaw Free Army stand against the thugs of the SS and the evil of Reinhard Heydrich,” the baron continued. “I have pledged myself to help Warsaw to survive.”
There was stunned silence around the parade ground as everybody tried to work out what the baron was saying. The commandant’s hazy thought processes struggled with the conundrum of how the baron came to be using words like “thugs” and “evil” when describing the SS and the Great Leader.
“Now is the time to throw off the shackles of slavery!” shouted the baron.
With a look of bemusement on his face the camp commandant turned to the baron; his bamboozled mind had at last managed to make two and two equal four. Unfortunately this mathematical insight came too late to save him. The baron smiled at him and put a bullet through his head, and as Crockett’s men dispatched the other guards in similar fashion, the Polish prisoners just stood immobile on the parade ground, stunned by the turn of events.
“Polish soldiers,” began the baron in a loud voice, “as I speak to you, men of the Royalist Defense League are seizing a train laden with guns and ammunition—enough to arm every one of you.” The baron looked up and down the ranks of the dirty and bemused Poles. “I ask you to join me in attacking the SS in Warsaw and helping our brave WFA comrades in their fight against tyranny.”
And to the baron’s astonishment, the men started cheering.
THE TRAIN WAS EARLY. CASSIDY HAD ONLY JUST SET THE BOMB—HE hadn’t been able to remember whether the baron had told him he needed two hundred kilos of explosive or four hundred kilos, so to be on the safe side, he’d opted for the latter—and run the fuse behind the shed they were using as protection from the blast when he heard the whistle announcing the train’s imminent arrival. Of course, the baron had also got him confused about the direction the train was to come at him from, but, thankfully, once he’d realized it was arriving from the Rodina side of the bridge, he’d managed to nip out and relay the bomb in time. A minute later, when he saw the train’s lanterns, he scratched a match on the side of the shed, lit the fuse and prayed that he hadn’t cut it too long. If the bomb exploded after the train had passed, the baron would be mighty ticked off.
The bomb exploded exactly where Cassidy had intended: under the engine, directly beneath the boiler. Unfortunately, as he decided later, he should have used only two hundred kilos—maybe that should have been two hundred pou
nds—of explosive. At four hundred kilos the bomb didn’t so much derail the train as pick it up and toss it disdainfully aside. There was a huge, ear-shredding scream of steel on steel, the train seemed to pause for a moment as though gathering its breath and then it jumped the tracks and plunged down the earth embankment, dragging the line of seven carriages it was hauling with it.
Fuck!
For a moment the train lay huffing and puffing on its side like some great wounded beast. Then all Hel broke loose. The boiler exploded and if the sound of Cassidy’s bomb detonating had been loud, this was positively earth-shaking. Shards of metal flew like so much shrapnel through the air, wrecking the wooden shed Cassidy was using for cover, a flying rivet almost taking his head off. This he decided was a damned sight more exciting—and dangerous—than tending to the gardens of Dashwood Manor.
He waited a few moments until he was reasonably confident that nothing else was going to go bang and then peeked out from behind the smoking ruin of the shed. The train’s firebox had been split open by the explosion, spewing burning coals all around, and by the light from the fires the coals had started he saw that the cargo carried by the trucks had been spilled along the line. Cassidy set off at a trot to see what the spoils of war were. Initially he was disappointed—all there seemed to be were boxes upon boxes of tinned meat—but at the third wagon he struck lucky, almost tripping over long wooden boxes containing automatic rifles.
With a whoop of triumph he waved to the boy who had command of the signal rocket and a second later a red flare was arching across the night sky.
Cassidy gave a satisfied smile; he had just pulled off the first robbery of a railway train in the history of the Demi-Monde. He would be famous. It might even be the first step on a very lucrative career. All he needed was more trains.
THE BARON HADN’T APPRECIATED HOW DIFFICULT IT WOULD BE TO FASHION the Polish prisoners into an army. Once they had broken out of the camp, once they had got to the wrecked train, once they were armed, then all discipline seemed to desert them. All they were intent on was revenge; all they wanted to do was to kill people . . . any people. But the baron knew they didn’t have time for revenge. Once day dawned there would be no hiding from the SS and they would be hunted down like dogs. By the baron’s calculations they had, at most, ten hours, ten hours to decide the fate of what was left of the WFA and of Trixie.