what we call an?-Singularity.’
‘I thought Heydrich had been classified as a?-Singularity?’ interrupted the Captain.
‘In the light of developments in the Demi-Monde since the OutSet of the simulation we have had to reclassify Reini. He has, after all, taken control of two of the five Sectors of the Demi-Monde. A remarkable achievement. We have now flagged him as an?-Singularity, and when chaos and disorder are the order of the day, then ?-Singularities like our friend Reini here come out to play their horrible little games.’
‘How many Singularities like Heydrich do you have loose in the Demi-Monde?’
‘At the last count? Eighteen.’
Jesus… eighteen of the bastards… eighteen like Heydrich.
Ella just hoped the cyber-walls they had built around the Demi-Monde were strong enough to contain that amount of evil.
6
The Demi-Monde: 40th Day of Winter, 1004
HerEticalism is a Covenite religion based on female supremacy and the subjugation of men. Rabidly misandric in nature, the HerEtical belief is that Demi-Mondian-wide peace and prosperity – an unfeasibly idyllic outcome given the tag ‘MostBien’ – will only be realised when men (‘non-Femmes’ in Coven-speak) accept a subordinate position within society. HerEticalism has a more aggressive sister-religion known as Suffer-O-Gettism (a contraction of Make-Men-Suffer-O-Gettism) which espouses violence as the only means of bringing change in the Demi-Monde. Suffer-O-Gettes are of the opinion that the removal of the male of the species from the breeding cycle is a vital concomitant to the securing of MostBien. Such are the unnatural and obscene sexual activities of HerEticals that they are lampooned throughout the Demi-Monde as ‘LessBiens’.
– Religions of the Demi-Monde: Otto Weininger, University of Berlin Publications
Trixie barely had a chance to unpin her bonnet before Crockett, the Dashwoods’ butler, attended her. ‘The master asked that you join him in his study immediately you returned home, Miss Trixiebell.’
‘Why the urgency, Crockett? Why does my father want to see me?’
‘The Comrade Commissar has not seen fit to apprise me of the answers to those questions, Miss Trixiebell. I would simply observe that he seems a trifle agitated.’
‘Well, agitated or not, he’ll just have to wait. I have to go and change…’
The butler sidled his considerable bulk between Trixie and the staircase. ‘The master emphasised the word “immediately”, Miss Trixiebell. He was most insistent upon this point.’
‘But look at me. I can’t be presented looking like this.’
‘The word was “immediately”, Miss Trixiebell.’
Her father, decided Trixie when she flounced into his study, looked decidedly unwell. His handsome face was pale and his curly hair, usually so strictly regimented by a thick dressing of macassar oil, was dishevelled. There was even – and here Trixie couldn’t believe her eyes – a spot of blood on the lapel of his high-neck frock coat.
Something must be really amiss if the unbending Comrade Commissar Algernon Dashwood had felt the need to indulge in a little Solution so early in the day. He made it a rule never to imbibe until the sun was set.
Trixie took a seat on the couch to one side of the study, tucking her grimed shoes under her skirt as she did so: the less said about the expedition she’d been about that morning the better. Unfortunately her attempted subterfuge did her no good. ‘Where have you been?’ her father asked suddenly.
When lying, Trixie had long ago come to the conclusion that it was better to stick as close to the truth as possible. ‘I went down to the docks to do some sketching.’
‘The docks? Are you mad, girl? The docks are one of the most dangerous districts in the Rookeries.’
‘I had Luigi…’ she began, but her father wasn’t in the mood to listen to excuses.
‘This madcap escapade is at one with the irresponsible, the downright unacceptable behaviour of a young woman oblivious to and careless of the responsibilities of her rank. Spirits damn it, girl, you are the daughter of a commissar, not some mindless dolly-mop!’
Trixie flinched back from her father’s fury. She was used to being told off by her governess but not by her father. He had always encouraged her to think for herself, he had always indulged her misdemeanours. Her father took a long sip from a glass filled, she fervently hoped, with port wine.
Pray to ABBA it isn’t blood.
Whatever it was, it settled him. When he addressed her he seemed more composed. ‘I had a visit from Vice- Leader Beria this morning.’
Trixie’s eyes widened in amazement and her guts churned in horror.
‘He has a file on you.’
Trixie felt as though she was going to faint. Her senses swam. She slumped back into the couch, drained of strength and energy. Trickles of horror rippled over her skin. If the Checkya had found out she was conducting an unlicensed archaeological dig…
‘I thought that piece of news might bring you to your senses.’
‘But… but… but…’
Oh, for Spirits’ sake, Trixie, get a hold of yourself!
‘A file?’
‘Yes, a very thick file: a very thick file containing some very nasty jottings about the activities of a very silly girl.’
‘But why? Why did he show it to you?’
‘Trixie, don’t be so naive. Beria wishes to coerce you into doing a job for him.’
Trixie swallowed hard. Beria was famous – infamous – for liking young girls. She would kill herself before she let that debauched piece of shit touch her.
Her father obviously understood the foul thoughts Beria’s name had conjured in her mind. ‘It’s not like that, Trixie. Showing me the file was Beria’s not-so-subtle way of making me appreciate the consequences of your not cooperating with him. Believe me, he will never touch a hair of your head… not whilst I’m alive, that is. No, they’ve captured a Daemon, a Grade One Daemon.’
Trixie’s mouth fell open. She almost laughed. Daemons were inventions used to frighten children into being good, monsters evoked by Crowley to keep the hoi polloi cowed and submissive. No one – well, no one educated or with a spark of intelligence – believed in Daemons.
‘A Daemon? What, a real Daemon? But they’re just figments of fantasy.’
‘Apparently not. And this one isn’t just a common-or-garden-variety Daemon, this one’s sentient. This one has a memory of the Spirit World.’
‘How did they catch it?’ It was a stupid question: as far as Trixie was concerned Daemons didn’t exist, so how could they be captured? It must all be twaddle.
‘I don’t know the details but it seems that Crowley used his magic to lure it from the Spirit World. We’ll know more tonight. Crowley is delivering her…’
‘Her?’
‘Yes, it’s a female Daemon, a she-devil, a succubus. Apparently the Daemon has taken the outward form of a girl of about your age. As I was saying, Crowley is delivering her here tonight.’
‘I’m sorry, father, I’m having a little difficulty with this. I mean… Daemons don’t really exist… it isn’t RaTional.’
Comrade Commissar Dashwood slammed his fist onto his desk so hard that he made both an ink-pot and Trixie jump. ‘Are you so monumentally foolish, Trixie, that you can use the word “RaTional” so openly? Have you listened to nothing I’ve said? The Checkya have a file on you: they think you’re a protoRaTionalist, a potential HerEtical. By the Spirits, Beria even insinuated that you might be a Suffer-O-Gette.’
Shiver and shake time.
‘You must be careful now, Trixie. One more slip and it’s the Lubyanka for you… for us. And don’t think I’ll be able to save you: all of the Dashwood family will be travelling in the same tumbrel. Have you no idea just how evil these people are? Have you forgotten the fate of your friend Lillibeth?’
