Sectors.’
I wonder what else the Captain has forgotten.
‘But why did you set the Demi-Monde up like this?’ asked Ella. ‘It seems like a recipe for chaos.’
‘That was exactly the point, Miss Thomas,’ answered the Captain. ‘The Demi-Monde was designed to mirror the often divided demographics and religions of the populations and the enemies our forces meet in Asymmetric Warfare Environments. Oh, these disharmonics might have been taken to extremes when we were structuring the Demi-Monde, but remember we wanted the Demi-Monde to be an unstable and violence-prone world. And that’s why we seeded four Singularities into each Sector: these are the type of individuals with the potential to provide the aberrational leadership necessary to ensure that the Sectors are continually fighting one another. The last thing we wanted was peace breaking out in the Demi-Monde. In short, Miss Thomas, the Demi-Monde is the most extreme and the most pernicious of dystopias.’
‘A hell on earth,’ observed Ella as the Captain reclaimed his seat.
‘Exactly,’ agreed the General, ‘and that’s where we want you to go, Miss Thomas. We want you to go to hell.’
8
The Demi-Monde: 40th Day of Winter, 1004
HimPerialism is a religion, widely practised in NoirVille – or NoirVile, as it is sometimes called – based on male supremacy and the subjugation of women (or, as they are known in NoirVille, woeMen). The fundamental HimPerialistic belief is that Men have been ordained by ABBA to Lead and to Control the Demi-Monde and that woeMen’s role is to be Mute, Invisible, Supine and Subservient (the concept of subMISSiveness). Further, HimPerialism teaches that an individual’s Machismo may be enhanced by the exchange of bodily essences – a practice known as going Man ^2 naM – which has led to the vile and unnatural sexual practices for which NoirVilians are rightly condemned in the eyes of ABBA and of right-thinking people throughout the Demi-Monde. HimPerialism has a more aggressive brother-religion known as HimPeril which espouses violence as the only means of securing the triumph of HimPerialism in the Demi-Monde.
– Religions of the Demi-Monde: Otto Weininger, University of Berlin Publications
Beria’s interpretation of what constituted an unobtrusive guarding of the Daemon whilst it was kept at Dashwood Manor was totally different from Trixie’s father’s understanding of the word. But then, mused Trixie, as she watched the fifty-strong Checkya detachment arrive that afternoon, Beria wasn’t famous for being ‘unobtrusive’. The Checkya troops, assisted by a gang of slave labourers, had rapidly and efficiently turned Dashwood Manor from a home into a prison. Every window in the rooms the Daemon would occupy was equipped with bars, and the locks on every external door were changed and substituted for ones that were considerably more formidable.
The Dashwood family were forced to endure five hours of frenzied hammering and bashing. Indeed such was the chaos and the vast amount of mud that was tramped so uncaringly into her prized Coven-made carpets that Trixie’s governess retreated to her room in a flood of hysterics. It was as well she did: what Trixie saw the Checkya doing to the Manor’s front gardens was enough to reduce anyone to tears. Obviously fearful that the house would be subject to a full-scale assault – by whom, Trixie had no idea – the silent mob of navvies dug and delved, burrowed and banged until a labyrinth of trenches, pill-boxes and barbed-wire entanglements surrounded the house. The lawn where Trixie played croquet in the Summer was no more: in its place was an implacable military emplacement.
The Commander of the SS-Ordo Templi Aryanis, Colonel Archie Clement, came to inspect the works in the late afternoon, but whilst Dabrowski had been polite enough – and had the grace to look mildly embarrassed when introduced to Trixie – Archie Clement was not. Clement, Trixie decided, was a thoroughly disagreeable and disgusting piece of work. But then, what more could you expect from a Yank?
Clement strutted around the house and the grounds barking orders, kicking slaves and generally acting in a hugely obnoxious manner. And it was impossible to say him nay; the SS was, after all, the force dedicated to protecting the person of His Holiness Comrade Aleister Crowley and, by inference, the spiritual well-being of the ForthRight. They were UnFunDaMentalism’s shock troops.
It was fortunate that her father was, by dint of breeding and education, so adroit at handling jumped-up popinjays like Clement. As a Comrade Commissar he was used to the rough and ready manners of some of the men who populated the upper ranks of the Party.
‘Will you take coffee, Colonel Clement?’ her father had offered. ‘I could have it served in my study, which has endured only modest restructuring at the hands of Captain Dabrowski’s men.’
Clement was oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘That’d be mighty choice of you, Comrade Commissar; ah’m partial to a cup of cafe au gore after a hard day.’
‘Perhaps it would be useful if my daughter, Lady Trixiebell, were to join us?’ Dashwood nodded towards Trixie, who bobbed a curtsy. ‘She, after all, has a major part to play in the drama that is to unfold in this house.’
Ignoring the scowl from Clement – UnFunDaMentalism taught that women should confine themselves to ‘Feeding, Breeding and Menfolk Heeding’ – her father led the three of them – Dabrowski came too, much to Trixie’s disgust – through to his study and had Crockett serve coffee with a blood chaser.
Immediately he had drained his cup, Clement began. ‘You understand, Comrade Commissar, that while the Daemon is in your care, she… it… is to be your complete responsibility.’
This was an example of a phenomenon associated with the rise of the Party that Trixie had often heard her father complain about. Heydrich was an uncompromising Leader, quick to reward success, but equally quick to punish failure. And as the consequences for failure in the ForthRight were so draconian there was an aversion for officers and politicians to take responsibility for any action. Given a task to do, the first instinct of anyone in the ForthRight was to make sure that if anything went wrong there was someone else to take the blame, that it was someone else who disappeared – never to re-emerge – into the shadowed depths of Beria’s Lubyanka Prison.
Dashwood was too experienced a politician to be fooled by such a crude attempt to avoid responsibility. ‘Not so, Comrade Colonel Clement; I understood that all security arrangements are the responsibility of Comrade Captain Dabrowski. No, whilst your Daemon is here, the responsibility for keeping it here is the Captain’s. And presumably, Comrade Colonel, as you are inspecting and approving the security arrangements then you are also shouldering, at least in part, some of this honourable duty.’
Clement shook his head. ‘Nah, all the Comrade Captain is doing is assisting you… helping you make your house secure such that the Daemon can’t escape. But the final responsibility for holding her… it
… here is yours.’
Trixie found the inability of her father and Clement to decide whether the Daemon was a ‘she’ or an ‘it’ somewhat troubling. To her mind Daemons – figments of supernatural fiction though she thought them to be – were, by definition, inhuman and therefore should be referred to using the pronoun ‘it’.
Her father replied equitably. ‘The task I was given by Vice-Leader Beria was very clear: I am to provide an environment where the Daemon might feel less threatened and therefore more inclined to talk. To facilitate this loquaciousness, my daughter is to try and establish a friendship with the Daemon. Vice-Leader Beria made no reference to my being in charge of security.’ He shrugged to indicate his helplessness in the matter. ‘And how can I be? The good Captain here…’
Good, huh!
‘… is not under my command, Comrade Clement. If anything, he is under yours.’
This verbal tennis proved to Trixie just how important this Daemon was considered to be by the upper echelons of the Party. For two such high-ranking officials as her father and Archie Clement to be squabbling about who should carry the can if the Daemon were to escape showed just how fearful they were. Which raised the question: if she couldn’t get the Daemon to talk and to divulge its secrets what would be the consequences of failure to her?
His soft, boyish face red with anger, Archie Clement sprang to his feet, but before he could reply an imperious and cultured voice cut through proceedings.
‘Comrade Commissar Dashwood is quite correct, Colonel Clement. His only obligation in this momentous
