‘Mademoiselle,’ the sergeant began in excellent French, ‘I’m telling you for the last fucking time. Unless you and your people stop clogging up this street with your slow marching, I am going to have to arrest you.’
‘Arrest me for what, Sergeant?’ asked Odette, a look of sublime innocence on her face. ‘I am merely promenading, Sergeant – taking in the sights, the scents and the joy of Paris, the most beautiful city in the Demi-Monde.’
‘Don’t give me that bullshit. You and your pals are fucking up the unloading of these barges by preventing my steamer-lorries from getting to the docks.’
‘Which steamer-lorries, Sergeant?’ simpered Odette.
‘Those fucking steamer-lorries,’ said the sergeant, angrily stabbing a finger in the direction of the phalanx of vehicles huffing and puffing along behind the crowd of Normalists.
‘Oh, those.’ Odette gave an impish little smile. ‘I had no idea that we were interfering with the operation of the Thames docks.’
‘Like fuck, you didn’t. I’ve only told you about fifty fucking times.’ Suddenly the sergeant drew his pistol from his holster and aimed it at Odette’s head. ‘All right, party time’s over. If you don’t clear this road right now, I’m going to shoot you.’
Odette sighed. It was inevitable that their protest would be met by violence, and even by murder. As Norma had told her, the ForthRight was addicted to violence as a means of keeping power. She had also warned Odette that non-violence wasn’t, as many thought, synonymous with meekness; rather it was synonymous with a quiet – a fatalistic – strength. The disciples of non-violence had to be as ready to die for their cause as any soldier.
This was Odette’s moment of truth.
‘Then you must shoot me, Sergeant. If you believe that your religion and your beliefs demand that the appropriate punishment for the crime of walking slowly is murder, then you must shoot me. If you believe that by refusing to fight you I am the embodiment of evil your superiors tell you I am, then you must shoot me. But if you believe that no sane religion or government would ever order its officers to commit murder, you must holster your pistol. The decision is yours.’
The sergeant hesitated, and this brief hesitation saved him from the need to make that decision. The few seconds he stood there trying to make up his mind were long enough for his cogitations to be interrupted by the bustling arrival of a soldier.
‘The steamers have run out of coal, Sarge. The steamer drivers say they can’t do the unloading today. They’ve gone cold-boilers.’
‘Fuck.’
‘We’ll disperse now, Sergeant,’ said a smiling Odette Aroca, as she and her fellow demonstrators began to wander off.
19.30: The office of Vice-Leader Beria in the Élysée Palace
It had been a fucking awful day, decided Beria as he sat in his darkened office, comforting himself with a glass of Solution and mulling over the current crisis that was besetting the ForthRight. First there was the delay in getting the army into the Medi, then the collapse of the Pons Fabricus, and finally the news that the docks were out of action because of Normalist demonstrations.
Yeah, crisis was a fucking accurate description for what was happening. And the crisis was all because of those fucking Normalists, all because of this bitch who was posing as Aaliz Heydrich. All because of the Daemon, Norma Williams.
Fucking Daemons. He rang the small brass bell that stood on his desk.
The Andrei Zolotov who entered the room in answer to the summons looked markedly different from the jaunty and impudent rascal of only a few weeks ago. But then, Beria supposed, a close brush with death tended to be a sobering experience.
‘How is the wound, Zolotov?’
Instinctively, Zolotov raised his fingers to his left shoulder, where he had taken the bullet during the mêlée in the Maison d’Illusion. ‘The doctors tell me it’s healing well, though it aches like the very devil.’
‘Are you fit enough to resume your duties?’
‘Yes, thankfully, my sword arm was undamaged. I am ready and very willing to revenge myself on that witch the Lady IMmanual for the humiliation she inflicted on me.’
‘Ready, willing, but, not very able. You have been a disappointment to me, Zolotov,’ said Beria quietly. ‘I gave you the task of killing Burlesque Bandstand, and you failed. I gave you the task of killing the Lady IMmanual, and you failed. Normally such serial failure would result in … retribution. The ForthRight cannot – will not – tolerate failure. But I am moved to give you one final opportunity to prove yourself. The ForthRight has another task for you, which I believe will do much to slake your thirst for revenge and which will confirm that you are a loyal servant of the ForthRight. But I stress, this is your last chance. You do understand me, don’t you, Zolotov?’
‘Perfectly, Comrade Vice-Leader.’ And for once in his life, Andrei Zolotov looked like he did understand.
‘You have heard, no doubt, of the Lady Aaliz Heydrich?’
This was the most delicate moment in the whole interview, and for once Beria was pleased that Zolotov was such an uncaring wretch. It wouldn’t do for him, or for anybody outside the Leader’s closest circle, to enquire too seriously as to why the oh-so-patriotic and oh-so-dutiful Aaliz Heydrich had suddenly gone renegade.
‘Of course. She’s the daughter of our Leader.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘I was introduced to her at Dashwood Manor. She’s a rather attractive little piece, if I remember, though possessed of a keen tongue. I am not generally drawn to girls with sharp tongues. I prefer length to sharpness.’
‘Yes, she is both sharp and very, very dangerous. She has been designated a major threat to the ForthRight. She has been declared a nonNix.’
‘A nonNix?’
‘Indeed, I have a death warrant authorising her elimination, signed by the Leader himself.’
‘Remarkable,’ mused Zolotov. ‘May I ask why?’
‘The Lady Aaliz has become delusional. She has rejected UnFunDaMentalism, and has appointed herself the leader of these damned peaceniks who are plaguing our efforts to pacify the Medi. I wish you to infiltrate the Normalists and assassinate Aaliz Heydrich. Only when this is done are you permitted to turn your attention back to the task of dealing with IMmanual and Bandstand.’
Zolotov stubbed out his cigarette in Beria’s ashtray. ‘Then the quicker the girl is dead, the better for all concerned.’
34
Paris
The Demi-Monde: 60th Day of Spring, 1005
Doubt about our ability to predict history is due to HumanKind’s epistemic limitations, that is, their inability to perceive and understand everything about the Demi-Monde. It is the Demi-Mondians’ limited understanding of the movement of the rocks and pebbles in our temporal avalanche that has led them to the erroneous conclusion that this movement is random. Once this misconception is acknowledged, then Quantum-InDeterminism becomes Quantum-Determinism and everything, big and small, becomes predictable. At that moment of revelation we are able to see ABBA’s Intelligent Design of the Kosmos in all its awe-inspiring glory. Of course, there are still those naysayers who – despite all the evidence to the contrary – deny the existence of ABBA, to which Laplace famously replied ‘I have no use for that hypothesis’.
A LayPerson’s Guide to preScience:
Nikolai Kondratieff, Future History Institute Press
16.00: The Élysée Palace
When the convoy of armoured steamers bringing the Great Leader to Paris – via a hastily repaired Pons Fabricus – had finally arrived at the Élysée Palace, Heydrich was not in the best of moods. He was so unhappy that he spent the hour immediately following his arrival in an urgent meeting with Comrade General Skobelev. Although he was not invited to the meeting, Beria overheard much of what was said. Indeed the voice of the Great Leader was raised to such an extent as he harangued his subordinate that Beria would have been surprised if half of Paris hadn’t heard him.
Skobelev had emerged
red-faced and shaking from the meeting. Now it was Beria’s turn.
‘Skobelev has agreed to bring forward the attack on Venice, Comrade Vice-Leader,’ snarled Heydrich, by way of a greeting. ‘I understand that the convoy bringing the Krupps mortars to Paris has now almost completed its journey across the Hub, and has not yet encountered any problems with nanoBites. My experts believe that the unusually cold Spring has prolonged their hibernation. The mortars will be in place along the Grand Canal within five days, and the bombardment of Venice will begin then.’ Heydrich paused to collect his thoughts and to warm his arse by the fire. It was a bitterly cold day and there was no coal rationing in the Élysée Palace. ‘Now, Comrade Vice-Leader, listen to me very carefully. Any Medi CitiZen, particularly any of these fucking Normalists, caught thwarting or in any way hindering the deployment of Skobelev’s mortars is to be shot on the spot. I will tolerate no more excuses, no more delays regarding the conquest of the Quartier Chaud. Is that instruction clearly understood?’
‘Yes, Comrade Leader. But may I ask how the army is to haul the mortars once they are in Venice? We used all our remaining reserves of coal to fuel the steamer-crawlers currently traversing the Hub, but once in Venice they will be obliged to go cold-boilers.’
‘I have stripped the ForthRight of all its strategic reserves of coal. This coal is on barges crossing the Thames, sufficient to enable the steamer-crawlers to drag the mortars into position. I have made Comrade General Skobelev aware of the sacrifices the people of the ForthRight are making in order that this precious resource is available to the army.’
Yes, I heard you.
‘It is also necessary to liberate the supplies of meat held here in the Medi. It is intolerable that the people of the ForthRight should go hungry because of the misguided actions of a group of Normalist fanatics in preventing the export of foodstuffs. Tomorrow, Comrade Vice-Leader, the Checkya will occupy the Medi’s Industrial Zone and expedite the delivery of meat and grain to the ForthRight. Again, anyone opposing you will be shot.’
Heydrich paused, obviously having run out of things for Beria to do which involved shooting a lot of Medi CitiZens. ‘What is the news regarding the assassination of the Daemon Norma Williams?’ he asked finally.
‘I have infiltrated a crypto into the ranks of the Normalists. He is to be granted an audience with the Daemon posing as your daughter.’
‘When?’
‘Before the end of Spring.’
‘Excellent. At least there is some good news.’
Beria took advantage of the Leader’s raised spirits to mention Robespierre. ‘Senior CitiZen Robespierre is waiting in the anteroom.’
‘Why? What does that prick want?’
Obviously diplomacy wasn’t high on the Great Leader’s agenda. ‘To accompany you to the state steamer in order that the Ceremony of Unification might begin.’
16.32: The Quartier Chaudian Hub
Anxiously, Captain Jeremiah Greene scanned the convoy of steamer-crawlers chugging slowly across the Hub towards Porte Saint-Martin. The thirty vehicles that comprised Convoy One were already safely inside Paris, but because of a breakdown when they were crossing the Hub Bridge, the thirty crawlers that made up Convoy Two, commanded by Greene, had been delayed. Delayed for so long that the Convoy’s crawlers were still puffing and panting across the Hub on this the 60th day of Spring, ThawsDay, and nobody – nobody in their right mind, that is – came anywhere near the Hub on ThawsDay. That was when the nanoBites woke from their hibernation and after one hundred and fifty days of fasting the bastards were so hungry that they would eat anything – anything – sinking more than six inches below the surface of the HubLand. And from what Jeremiah Greene could see, the way the caterpillar tracks of the steamer-crawlers were chewing up the Hub would make them the plat du jour when the nanoBites came to dine.
‘Keep your steam up,’ Greene screamed at his steamer-crawler driver.
‘I am keeping my fucking steam up,’ came a bellowed reply, the tension in the air making everyone forget military etiquette.
Greene decided to ignore the driver’s insolence and turned instead to his sergeant, who was standing at the front of the steamer, anxiously examining the Hub for signs of subsurface life.
‘See anything?’ he asked.
‘Not a dicky bird, Captain. Maybe it’s just too cold for the nanoBites to come out of hibernation.’
The sergeant’s optimism was interrupted by a strange rustling noise that suddenly enveloped the entire Hub. It sounded to Greene akin to the noise dried leaves made when they were blown about, which was odd because there were no dried leaves to be seen, and not even a breath of wind. A moment later this rustling sound was accompanied by a shriek of tortured metal, as the steamer-crawler to his left began to lurch around in a most peculiar manner. As Greene stood gawping, the machine gradually sank deeper and deeper into the ground. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Not even something as heavy as a steamer-crawler could sink into the frost-hard Hub.
‘Nibbler attack!’ the sergeant screamed in his ear.
It was a scream which brought Greene to his senses: the steamer-crawler wasn’t sinking; it was being eaten from below.
Greene grabbed his megaphone. ‘Crew of Number 37, abandon crawler.’ He turned back to his sergeant. ‘Unhitch the mortar tow.’
‘But, sir …’ The look on the man’s face was eloquent. To abandon the Krupps mortar they had struggled to bring all the way from London was an act of treason.
‘Do as you’re fucking well told, or we’re all fucked!’ screamed Greene, who had made the instant decision that facing a firing squad for dereliction of duty was infinitely preferable to being eaten alive by nanoBites.
The sergeant used his boot to kick open the coupling that connected the steamer-crawler to its tow and, free of its burden, the crawler jumped forward, almost toppling Greene off his perch. Now, without the dead weight of the mortar, the crawler began to power its way across the Hub at almost twelve miles per hour.
Greene leant down into the turret. ‘BoilerMan,’ he shouted at the top of his voice, since his megaphone was now serving as a nanoBite hors d’oeuvre, ‘give me as much steam as you can. Your life depends on it!’
‘But the boilers!’
‘Fuck the boilers, just pour it on.’
A moment later the pistons began pounding back and forth even more frantically. Feeling a whole lot safer, Greene turned his attention back towards the crew escaping the stricken crawler 37. There were six of them sprinting across the hundred yards of open HubLand that separated their half-eaten steamer from Greene’s vehicle. Army lore had it that nanoBites wouldn’t attack a running man, as the contact his feet made with the surface was so fleeting that they didn’t have time to react. But, like most army lore, this rumour turned out to be bollocks.
What happened to the fleeing crew members was horrible but simultaneously fascinating. Each of the escapees suddenly stopped dead, and then seemed to be sucked into the ground, all the while screaming as they were devoured by the nanoBites. And they were devoured surprisingly rapidly: by Greene’s estimate, it took each man just twenty seconds to be converted from a living breathing human being into a stain on the ground.
The destruction of the crew of steamer-crawler 37 signalled a general awakening of the nanoBites and even travelling at twelve miles per hour, Greene’s steamer-crawler wasn’t immune from attack. Just two hundred yards from the sanctuary of Porte Saint-Martin, the machine suddenly staggered to a halt as its partially devoured tracks spun off. The munching sound of Nibblers at dinner enveloped the whole vehicle.
‘Abandon crawler,’ Greene screamed, not at all impressed with the hint of panic inflecting his voice. Determined to be the captain who didn’t go down with his steamer, he leapt to the ground and, sobbing and crying, raced as fast as his boots would allow him towards Porte Saint-Martin.
When she had heard that he might be serving in the Hub, his mother had provided her beloved son with what the ma
nufacturers called ‘anti-Nibbler’ boots, which, according to the promotional literature, guaranteed wearers ten minutes’ immunity from nanoBite attack. The boots were equipped with solid steel platform soles four inches thick and, as Greene now discovered, they made running very difficult. He only hoped the manufacturer’s estimate wasn’t just advertising puff.
He made it, but only just.
As a sweat-soaked, exhausted and near-deranged Captain Jeremiah Greene staggered through Porte Saint-Martin to the safety of Paris, he found that the soles of his boots were gone, and two of his toes were missing. But he was alive.
Greene was the only survivor of the nanoBite attack on steamer-crawler Convoy Two.
17.30: The Champ de Mars
Beria found it a very long, a very boring and a very painful celebration.
The meandering procession through Paris had been a trial. For security reasons, Havelock had insisted that the bulletproof windows of the steamer remained sealed for the whole two-hour cavalcade, thus turning the cabin into a smoke- and cinder-filled sweat-box. When Beria finally alighted at the Champ de Mars, he was tired, dirty and his dress uniform had been reduced to a sweat-soaked rag that stuck to his body in a truly loathsome manner. His mood hadn’t been helped by being confined for over an hour with a morose Heydrich and a nigh-on-hysterical Robespierre.
Beria also regretted not having used the bucket Havelock had placed in the cabin before he’d relinquished the privacy of the steamer, but the thought of pissing in front of Robespierre was inimical. In Beria’s opinion, it didn’t do for underlings to see their betters engaging in bodily functions, but in retrospect, not using the bucket might have been a mistake. He just hoped that he would be able to control his bladder for the rest of the celebrations.
The events preceding the speech-making seemed never-ending. The marching of the red-jacketed Guards was predictably flawless and predictably boring, and after half an hour watching them wheeling and turning in front of the VIP Stand and being forced to listen to the pounding of their infernal brass band, Beria found that his face had become set in a rictus of a smile and his head was near splitting with pain. But his head wasn’t the only thing in danger of splitting: he really had to take a piss.
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