Winter

by Rod Rees

  “Tea?”

  Ella looked up to find Vanka, an enamel mug of steaming tea in his hand, standing in front of her. “Our glorious leader Colonel Dashwood has decided, as it’s Spring Eve, to distribute the last of the tea rations. I had been hoping for Solution but Trixie Dashwood is a very austere commander who doesn’t want any of her soldiers drunk before the breakout.” Vanka looked around at all the fighters crowded into the warehouse and shrugged. “Fuck knows why; I’d have thought that it was best we all died pissed.”

  She took the scalding-hot mug carefully in both hands. “Thanks, Vanka. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “My pleasure.” He sat down beside her. “Penny for them. You’ve been sitting lost in thought for nigh on ten minutes.”

  “I’m just wondering how I can get to ExterSteine.”

  “Oh, not again. I thought—”

  “Please, Vanka, I’ve got to rescue Norma; it’s what I was sent to the Demi-Monde to do.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, but I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself; the first thing we’ve got to do is get out of the Ghetto alive. Do that and then we can start worrying about rescuing Norma I’m-a-shrew Williams.”

  “What do you think are our chances?”

  “Of getting out of the Ghetto? The same chance we’ve got of rescuing Norma Williams: piss-poor. With the reinforcements the baron’s brought in there’re about six or seven thousand WFA stuck here in the Industrial Zone and Clement has about five times that number of SS StormTroopers surrounding us. My guess is that in the confusion a couple of hundred of us might slip through, but no more. But then as long as you and I are numbered amongst the living, who gives a damn?”

  Ella looked around the warehouse where she was sitting, casting an eye over all the young WFA fighters clustered there going through their final preparations in advance of the breakout: cleaning their rifles, checking their ammunition, doing the thousand and one things that soldiers do to take their minds off the slaughter to come.

  They all looked so young.

  “They’ve asked me to perform a blessing before the fighting starts,” she said quietly.

  Vanka laughed. “Why not? You’re the one who performs miracles, Ella, you’re the one who opens impenetrable Boundary Layers and suchlike. Maybe they should ask you to perform another miracle. Maybe you could make them all bulletproof?”

  “Don’t be silly, Vanka,” Ella protested, but as always she found his refusal to take anything seriously hugely comforting. “I just find all this blessing business odd.”

  “Odd for Ella Thomas perhaps, but you’re not Ella Thomas anymore, are you? Now you’re the Lady IMmanual, ABBA’s right-hand woman.”

  The unfortunate thing was that what he said was true. Since the Miracle of the Beyond people had been treating her differently. Everywhere she went in the cramped enclave of the WFA’s final redoubt the fighters saluted her as she passed; when she walked into a room the conversation immediately ceased and everybody stood and bowed reverently.

  Ella was no longer “the Shade” or “the Daemon.” Now she had a new name, one that was whispered in worshipful tones. Now she was the Lady IMmanual. Now she was the Spirit who had led the people of Warsaw to the Promised Land, the Holy Woman who had parted the Boundary, the Divine Savior sent by ABBA to save His children.

  Now she was the Messiah.

  Those who believed in her and her ability to perform miracles had a new sign, one that she saw daubed on walls everywhere in the Ghetto, the same sign that a great many of the fighters had embroidered after the letters “WFA” on their armbands. It was the sign of the inverted “V”—a lambda sign, supposedly signifying the drawing back of the veil that cloaked the Beyond. And those who wore the symbol called themselves IMmanualists.

  It was an indication of how rapidly IMmanualism had swept through the ranks of the WFA that of the three hundred fighters gathered in the warehouse almost all wore the sign. For Ella all this attention and reverence was at best mildly amusing and at worst hugely embarrassing, but, she mused, if it brought comfort to people what was the harm in it?

  “So you think I should bless them, Vanka?”

  Another uncaring shrug. He took out his watch to check the time. “There’s only an hour to midnight, so I don’t think we’ve got enough time for you to play Lady IMmanual and piss about blessing people, which is just as well because I don’t think Colonel Dashwood would approve. And anyway, what I’m more worried about is who’s going to bless you? I think you’re in more danger than any of these kids.”

  “How so?”

  Vanka edged a little closer. “Because these kids will only have the SS trying to kill them; you’re going to have the SS and Trixie Dashwood trying to off you.”

  She could not hide her surprise. “What?”

  “The trouble with you, Ella,” he said quietly, “is that you always want to see the good in people. With me it’s different: I see them for the shitbags they really are. I eavesdropped on a conversation between Trixie and that tame gorilla of hers, Wysochi. They’re planning to kill you during the breakout.”

  “Kill me? Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “Believe me, that’s what they’re plotting. People like Trixie Dashwood don’t like rivals.”

  “Rival? I’m not Trixie Dashwood’s rival!”

  “Shh!” He put a finger to his lips. “Keep it quiet. And for your information, yes, you are a rival—for her fighters’ allegiance. When half the WFA is wearing the Sign of the Lady IMmanual on their sleeve then Trixie knows she’s got competition, and believe me, the last thing the commander of an army wants is to be second-guessed by a religious icon.”

  “Come on, Vanka, Trixie Dashwood and I have been through a lot together; she knows I’d do nothing to undermine her authority.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s not how she sees all this business about democracy you were spouting. And now that you’re the Lady IMmanual—the Messiah—people are starting to listen to you. I’ve heard mutterings in the ranks that the fighters think it should be you who’s leading them, not her, and that must have gone down like a lead balloon with Trixie the Terrible. And she’s a devil when it comes to purging opposition; there’s something of a Heydrich about that young lady.”

  “Now you’re going too far, Vanka. Trixie’s fighting Heydrich.”

  “Yeah, and she’s fighting fire with fire. She hates the SS and the UnFunDaMentalists almost as much as Heydrich hates Poles and nuJus, and that sort of hatred distorts the soul. I thought when her father returned from the grave that it might have had a calming effect on little Trixie but from what I hear she’s as hate-filled as ever. Shooting that poor sod Wozniak . . .” He shook his head. “She enjoys killing a tad too much for my liking.”

  “Oh, come on, Vanka.”

  “Don’t ‘oh, come on, Vanka’ me. You didn’t see her reaction when she read one of the pamphlets young Penn over there produced.” He glanced in the direction of a tall, thin fighter who was sitting in a corner of the warehouse scribbling in a notebook. “That twerp is the worst of all the bloody IMmanualists. You know he’s writing down every word you say as though it’s the word of the Spirits.”

  “Oh, William’s harmless enough.”

  “Harmless!” Vanka nearly gagged. “His little pamphlet giving an account of the Miracle of the Beyond and recording your Sermon on the Boundary nearly caused Trixie Dashwood to bust her stays. She hates you, Ella.”

  Much as Ella wanted to deny it, she knew deep down that Vanka was right: Trixie did hate her . . . hated her enough to kill her. And that was why, since the parting of the Boundary Layer, Trixie had been avoiding her, instinctively staying far enough away from Ella so she couldn’t be read.

  “So what do we do, Vanka?”

  “The WFA is going to try to break out of the Ghetto at midnight. I’ve a feeling in my water that during the fighting it’s planned that you succumb to lead poisoning.” He pulled out his Colt
revolver and checked that it was fully loaded. “So it’s probably time we made ourselves scarce. We need to keep a very low profile until the fighting starts and then head for the long grass.”

  “But what about the Twelve? They won’t leave me.”

  “Oh, those idiots.” Vanka stole a look at the twelve men and women who had elected themselves as Ella’s personal bodyguard—the Twelve, they called themselves—and who were now seated in a phalanx around her, just out of earshot. “Let’s take them with us. They may be following you around like a bunch of lovesick puppy dogs but they’re good fighters.”

  “But then how will we get to ExterSteine?”

  “Bloody ExterSteine. Bloody Norma Williams. I wish you’d forget about saving that bitch. But if you must, I’ve got an idea—”

  He was interrupted as Rivets scuttled up and began to speak breathlessly. “Someone’s coming, Vanka. I think it’s that big bastard Wysochi you told me to keep an eye out for.”

  Vanka took Ella by the arm and led her toward the rear exit of the warehouse. “Time to go. I think Trixiebell Dashwood is intent on doing some early Spring cleaning.”

  “SHE’S GONE,” WYSOCHI WHISPERED IN TRIXIE’S EAR WHEN HE REPORTED back. “I should have known that fly bastard Maykov would have anticipated what was going to happen. Shall I send out men to look for her?”

  Trixie shook her head. “No, we’ll deal with this matter later.” She smiled guilelessly at the five officers who now made up her Military Council. It didn’t do for commanders to discuss the assassination of rivals in front of their officers; it was bad for morale. “We have learned that the SS have infiltrated cryptos into the WFA charged with the assassination of the Lady IMmanual.” The use of the Shade’s ridiculous honorific caught in her craw. “We believe that the most vicious and dangerous of these cryptos is the Russian who calls himself Vanka Maykov. Maykov has persuaded the Lady IMmanual that she is in danger and that only he can help her escape the Ghetto. In reality he is intent on leading her to a trap set by the SS. Sergeant Wysochi was to have taken the Lady IMmanual into protective custody but that slippery rascal was too quick for us.”

  “Then we must send out search parties.”

  This comment came from the newly promoted Captain Michalski, who was, much to Trixie’s disgust, the most fervently IMmanualistic of all of Trixie’s officers. This was a shame; she and Michalski might have been through some tough times together but unfortunately his religious conversion rendered him untrustworthy. When push came to shove, she wanted officers around her who knew only one commander: her. Michalski wouldn’t make it through to the morning; Wysochi would see to that.

  “We have no time, Captain Michalski, the breakout commences in less than thirty minutes. All our attention must be directed toward the preservation of the WFA as a fighting force.” She looked sternly around the table. “We will concentrate our attack on Westgate. That’s where we’ll make our breakout. Once through there, we’ll head for the Anichkov Bridge, then over to the Coven. The Coven has confirmed that all WFA fighters will be given sanctuary in their Sector.”

  “If I might make an observation.” Everyone in the room turned toward Baron Dashwood. “I have been thinking over the attack I made on the Reinhard Heydrich Railway Bridge—”

  “We have precious little time for idle discussions, Major.”

  “What I have to say will only take a moment, Colonel.” There was a definite edge in her father’s voice and Trixie felt her hackles rise.

  She hated it when he used that tone; she wasn’t a child anymore. She was the senior officer here, not him. No one told her what to do anymore. She took a deep breath, trying not to let her annoyance show. It had been a mistake to have put her father in command of a regiment; he presumed on his relationship with her too much. No other officer would have had the temerity to interrupt her like this.

  “Very well, Major, what is this observation of yours?”

  “I didn’t realize it at the time, but the train was heading in the wrong direction. It was traveling from Rodina to the Rookeries.”

  “So what?”

  “If the train was bringing munitions to support an attack on the Coven it should have been going the other way. I think Heydrich has hoodwinked us . . . has hoodwinked me, rather. Operation Barbarossa isn’t a plan to invade the Coven, it’s a plan to invade the Quartier Chaud. Heydrich must have known I was a Royalist all along; he was using me as part of his black propaganda campaign to confuse the Medis and Doge Catherine-Sophia. He didn’t want Venice getting wind of an impending attack so he’s been pretending that the Coven was his objective. All that nonsense in The Stormer about the ForthRight invading the Coven was just that: nonsense. Maybe that whole eavesdropping episode in the manor was stage-managed. Maybe Beria knew that Dabrowski was a crypto.”

  Trixie shook her head. “What difference does it make? So the ForthRight is making war on the Quartier Chaud rather than the Coven. The fact remains I’ve got seven thousand fighters who need to break out of the Ghetto and find sanctuary.”

  “Find sanctuary where?”

  “I told you. The Covenites have offered us—”

  “The Coven has signed a nonaggression pact with the ForthRight. I think we’re being led into a trap. That’s why our patrols have told us the SS are weakest toward Westgate. We’re being funneled toward the Coven—”

  “Nonsense! Clement has made a tactical error, one that I am determined to exploit. Your supposition, Major, is based on the flimsiest of evidence, a single train going in the wrong direction. There might be a hundred reasons why that happened.”

  “But I am sure—”

  “Enough!” Trixie spat out the word. “There is no more time for debate. You have your orders, Major Dashwood, I expect them to be carried out. Do you understand?”

  For a moment their eyes locked. It was the baron who lowered his gaze. “Yes, Colonel.”

  Her hand still trembling with anger, Trixie raised her glass of Solution from the table. “Then all that remains, gentlemen, is to make a toast: to a free Warsaw and a free Demi-Monde. May the blessings of ABBA and of the Lady IMmanual be on you and your soldiers.”

  NORMA RECOGNIZED THE VOICE. IT WAS ALEISTER CROWLEY, THOUGH the way his voice echoed and reverberated suggested they were standing in some sort of hall or cave.

  “I am so pleased, Daemon, that you could join us in our celebration of Freyja’s Night, to help us in the performing of the ritual that proclaims the coming of Spring.”

  Norma’s blindfold was untied. Standing there, blinking in the gloom, she saw she was in a huge, pitch-dark cavern with burning tapers dotted around the wall for illumination. She shivered, but not through cold; the cavern was a terrifying place. It must, she decided, be made from Mantle-ite, which was why eerie green shadows skittered like specters around the bare walls.

  Norma had the impression that she had walked into the gullet of some huge serpent: the walls were decorated with murals of the most bestial kind, concocted from screaming reds and tormented yellows with huge snakes and dragons twirling and twisting in demented patterns. And as her eyes got used to the gloom, she saw that deeper into the cave the murals became increasingly frenzied, brighter and bolder colors depicting events from some forgotten mythology, the artwork primitive and savage, a primeval kaleidoscope.

  It looked for all the world like a set from a horror movie, and the players were as loathsome as the set.

  There were, as best she could judge, thirteen people gathered in the cavern and all of them—with the exception of Crowley—were dressed in deep purple robes with their faces hidden by quite hideous masks depicting various mythological animals. Well, she hoped they were mythological: the beasts that inhabited Terror Incognita were rumored to be pretty monstrous.

  Crowley took a step forward, allowing Norma to get a better look at him. In contrast to his adepts, the magician was unmasked and wore a long flowing robe colored the darkest red and embroidered in gold with a myriad of runic symbo
ls. Around his head was an inch-thick golden band with a gleaming red ruby at its center.

  “Where am I?” asked Norma, desperately trying to mask the quaver in her voice.

  “You are at ExterSteine, Daemon, perhaps the most magical of all places in the Demi-Monde. ExterSteine is a group of five tall pillars of Mantle-ite created when the Demi-Monde was young, before the Confinement. We are now atop Lilith’s Tower, the tallest of all the columns, where the Pre-Folk formed this cavern. It was here, or so mythology would have us believe, that Lilith performed her most vile and debased magic. But that was long ago; where you are standing, Daemon, is now UnFunDaMentalism’s holiest place.”

  “Why have you brought me here?” She asked the question despite the fact that she had a pretty good idea already. Still, better to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.

  “Every Quarter’s Eve I gather my innermost circle of adepts here to give thanks to the Spirits for the changing seasons. In the UnFunDaMentalist calendar the most important Quarter Eve is this one, the one which celebrates the movement of our world from the barren cold of Winter to the lush fertility of Spring.” He pointed to a shuttered hole high up in the roof of the cavern. “The rays of the rising sun will pour through that opening tomorrow morning to signal the death of Winter and the birth of Spring.”

  Totally non compos fucking mentis.

  Crowley began to prowl around the floor of the cavern, pontificating as he went. “But tonight we do more than merely celebrate Spring Eve. Tonight we will push back the very boundaries of magic. Tonight, Daemon, we will perform the Rite of Transference, a rite never attempted before. The Lady Aaliz Heydrich will take possession of your body in the Real World and for the first time, a Demi-Mondian will manifest themselves physically and not just spiritually in the Real World. Tonight, we in the ForthRight will take our first step along the path that will lead to the Unification of the Two Worlds and the triumph of UnFunDaMentalism throughout the Kosmos.”

  A twenty-four-karat screwball.

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I might pass.”