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  And he had been complicit in their destruction.

  That had been the price the Party had demanded for his survival and that of his family: complicity in mass murder. Maybe now it was his turn to be purged? As he walked through the Ministry he racked his mind, trying to identify what infraction he might have committed that would have persuaded Beria—the head of the ForthRight’s dreaded secret police, the Checkya—to sign his death warrant. He had been so very careful.

  He stopped for an instant.

  Maybe Trixiebell . . .

  Oh please, not Trixiebell. Not my precious little Trixie.

  For a second he was tempted to turn on his heel and scuttle off home, collect Trixie, jump on a barge heading for the Hub and seek exile in . . . in where exactly? The sad truth was that there was nowhere to run to in the Demi-Monde.

  The Checkya had a long reach, and, from what he had heard yesterday at the PolitBuro meeting, by the Summer the ForthRight Army would have conquered the Coven and would, in all probability, be turning its malignant attention toward the Quartier Chaud. Maybe he and Trixie should try NoirVille? Somehow though he didn’t think Trixie was cut out for a life in purdah. HimPerialism was a harsh regime and very antagonistic toward women, especially independently minded women like Trixie. No, there was nowhere to run to, and, anyway, he had other things to do, other things to organize.

  Dashwood stopped before the great oak door of his office and took a moment to brush a few errant steamer cinders from his immaculate suit. He doffed his top hat, took the door’s handle in a firm grasp and entered. When he saw the man who was sitting behind his desk, idly smoking a cigarette and very systematically scanning his correspondence, all his worst fears were realized.

  “Ah, Comrade Commissar Dashwood . . . at last. I am royally blessed.”

  Dashwood fidgeted uncomfortably under Beria’s scrutiny. The rather feeble joke Beria had made—a reference to Dashwood’s aristocratic lineage; he had once been Baron Dashwood—was one he would do well to mark. Beria’s purge of the aristocracy after the Troubles had condemned almost all of those with any hint of a royal pedigree—like Dashwood—to a painful death.

  Desperately he tried to compose himself. Automatically he raised his forearm to give the Party salute. “Two Sectors Forged as One,” he intoned.

  Beria flipped an arm casually in response and then made a great show of checking his watch. “Your secretary informed me you would be at your office at seven. It is now three minutes past: I trust, Comrade Commissar, this is not a demonstration of the laxity with which you order the rest of the workings of your Ministry.”

  “No, Vice-Leader, Comrade Beria.”

  Vice-Leader: had there ever been a more appropriate title?

  With a bleak smile Beria nodded him toward the guest chair stationed in front of the desk. As he sat down, Dashwood was suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He twisted around and saw the tall, saturnine figure of an army officer lurking in the corner.

  “This is Captain Jan Dabrowski, a member of the Checkya,” advised Beria idly.

  The captain offered no salute; he just stood, cold and implacable, staring at Dashwood’s neck. Dabrowski certainly looked the part of a secret policeman and Dashwood had absolutely no doubt that this Polish bastard—he was instantly identifiable as a Pole by his lapel flashes—would do whatever it was his master commanded, murder included.

  “I had not been aware, Comrade Commissar,” began Beria as he arranged Dashwood’s desk stationery in a more precise fashion, “that you worked to such an undemanding schedule. A seven o’clock start—even on a Sunday—is decidedly remiss. We are, as you know, about to embark on the divinely ordained crusade to cleanse the Demi-Monde of UnderMentionables, of the nuJu and Shade scum which contaminate our world, and to be successful Operation Barbarossa will require diligence and sacrifice by all Party members. The Party demands sacrifice and it behooves us, the upper echelon, to set an example. I myself am never at my office later than five in the morning; I would suggest you imitate my example.”

  “Yes, Vice-Leader.”

  Get on with it, you bastard.

  “You are, after all, Comrade Commissar, one of the few survivors of the Court of that Arch-Imperialist and Oppressor of the People Henry Tudor. Anything less than total dedication to the Party and to Comrade Leader Heydrich could be interpreted as your having recidivist tendencies.”

  “Comrade Leader Heydrich should have no doubts as to my total and undying loyalty to the ForthRight and to the Party.”

  Beria slowly drew a handkerchief out of his sleeve, used it to shine his tiny spectacles and then dabbed it to his moist lips. “I am sure the Leader will be delighted to hear of your declaration of fealty, especially as I am here to present you with an opportunity to perform a great service to the Party and to the ForthRight.”

  Dashwood almost cried with relief; he wasn’t going to be purged. Not today, anyway. “I am ready to perform any task that might be of service to our Leader.”

  “The Leader was impressed with you when you attended the PolitBuro meeting yesterday. You are held in high esteem by the Great Leader. Your expertise in logistics is second to none.”

  Which is probably why I haven’t been purged, mused Dashwood.

  Yet.

  Beria leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling as though in search of higher inspiration. “But unfortunately I cannot say the same thing about all your family. I had Captain Dabrowski attend a social given by Mrs. Albemarle two days ago with the express intention of making an evaluation of your daughter.”

  Dashwood stiffened in his chair and he felt a shiver run down his spine: in the ForthRight the word “evaluate” was replete with many meanings, none of them good.

  “My daughter?” he asked as casually as he was able.

  Beria didn’t answer immediately. Instead he pulled a buff-colored file toward him, opened it and began slowly to turn each of the pages, studying them with theatrical exactitude. “For one so young, your daughter has amassed a commendably . . . or should that be censurably thick file.” He shook his head in mock astonishment. “From what I can glean, the received wisdom is that your daughter has all the hallmarks of a future troublemaker, a girl with potentially disruptive HerEtical tendencies. It takes real counterrevolutionary zeal to be Censured before the age of sixteen.”

  “Trixiebell was very upset by the death of her mother . . .”

  “But to have publicly lambasted her UnFunDaMentalist Ideology Tutor for teaching, and I quote here, ‘twaddle’ . . . Tut, tut, tut . . . this is not something one expects from the daughter of a high-ranking Party official. She also seems to have made a protest to the principal of her academy regarding the removal of references to a nonNix . . . an unperson.”

  Dashwood did his best to defend his daughter. “Trixiebell was chastised and attended a two-week Political Re-Education Camp last summer. I am sure she is now totally realigned both politically and ideologically.”

  “I wish I could share your confidence, Comrade Commissar. Young people today are such a trial. Unfortunately, the report of the captain here suggests that your daughter is still possessed of subversive inclinations.”

  Dashwood surreptitiously unclipped the holster that held his Colt revolver. If there was one thing he was certain of it was that he wouldn’t let Trixie fall into the hands of this degenerate. He’d kill Beria first.

  Beria picked up a likeness of Trixie from the file and studied it. “Your daughter is very beautiful, Comrade Commissar.” He licked his lips. “So slim, so blond, so athletic, but, unfortunately, so willful. It would be a tragedy, would it not, to lose such a perfect example of Aryan womanhood to the pernicious cant of HerEticalism? The captain has suspicions that your daughter could be a proto-RaTionalist . . . perhaps even a Suffer-O-Gette.”

  “Never.”

  “Perhaps that is a little excessive. But I must warn you, Comrade Commissar, that your daughter is on the slippery slope that leads to destructi
on. However, your daughter’s teachers report that she is remarkably intelligent and a gifted debater.” He took a pull on his cigarette, then blew a nimbus of smoke up to the ceiling. “I have a task that requires the services of a young girl . . . an intelligent young girl. It is a task that, if performed with diligence, will result in the rather compromising contents of this file”—here he closed the file and tossed it disdainfully into the wastebasket—“being consigned to oblivion.”

  “And what is this task?” asked Dashwood.

  Chapter 3

  The Real World: June 12, 2018

  The Demi-Monde® remedies all of the shortcomings identified in previous-generation Asymmetrical Warfare Virtual Training Programs and achieves a fundamental upshifting of the Realism Quotient, of Inter-Sectorial/Inter-Personal DisHarmonic Measures, of Emotional and Psychological Impact Motifs, and of Battle Performance Indices (all of which dramatically and comprehensively exceed those specified in the Tender Document). In short the Demi-Monde® provides the perfect environment where U.S. Combat Personnel—be they neoFights, seasoned BattlePersonnel, NCOs, officers or squads—can be trained and evaluated in a cost-effective and performance-effective manner in AWE situations of the most accurate, convincing and challenging kind, and where Tactics, Techniques and Procedures may be subjected to Extreme Action Testing. It is estimated the Demi-Monde® will save the U.S. military over $4.35 billion in training, hospitalization, welfare and mortuary costs in each fiscal year.

  —THE DEMI-MONDE® PRODUCT DESCRIPTION MANUAL, JUNE 14, 2013

  Wha?D’oh?

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I asked, Miss Thomas, if you would like to earn a million dollars.”

  Ella took a deep breath as her natural suspicion kicked in. She eyed the general skeptically, simultaneously shooing away all those very pleasant thoughts about how good it would be not to have to worry about raising the money she needed to get to college, not to worry about paying the rent, not to worry about Billy, not to worry about all the things an eighteen-year-old girl shouldn’t have to worry about.

  “Are you on the level? You’re not just blowing me shit . . . winding me up?”

  The general nodded enthusiastically, which Ella found a little confusing. “Why yes, Miss Thomas, I am absolutely on the level. I am deadly serious. Never more so! So I ask again, would you like to earn a million dollars?”

  Ella mulled things over, trying to stay calm. The general looked like he was playing the straight shooter. But . . .

  “That, in the words of my law teacher, Mr. General, sir, is a non sequitur. Of course I’d like to earn a million dollars. The question is, though, what would I have to do to earn it?” She smiled. “Who would I have to kill?”

  The general frowned and gave his head a vehement shake. “No one, Miss Thomas, absolutely no one. No, you won’t have to kill anyone. What the U.S. government wants you to do is save someone. We need you to go on a rescue mission.”

  This whole conversation, Ella decided, was getting a little bent out of shape. She had come to Fort Jackson, the U.S. Army’s InDoctrination and Training Command Center, a week ago to audition—so they had told her—as a singer in a band being put together to tour U.S. military bases around the world. And now, here she was, being asked if she wouldn’t mind playing Ella TrueHeart and being offered a million bucks for her trouble. It didn’t make sense. But a million bucks was a million bucks.

  “You don’t want me to sing?”

  “Oh, yes, that is vital. The woman we send on this mission has got to be able to sing. The only way she’ll be able to infiltrate the enemy’s position is by being able to pose as a jazz singer.”

  This was getting out of hand; Ella decided to give the general a reality check. “Look, General, sir, I’m just an eighteen-year-old high school student who sings in the evening to try to scratch up enough dough to put herself through college. I’m an ordinary girl. You’ve gotta realize that the name Ella Thomas ain’t some kind of secret identity. I ain’t sitting here in your office as my alter ego. I’m not Wonder Woman or Supergirl in disguise. People like me don’t do ‘rescue missions.’ People like me wait tables and run checkouts.”

  The general gave Ella what she guessed was his take on a reassuring smile. She wished he hadn’t; it made him look constipated. “I sympathize with your confusion, Miss Thomas, and I apologize for springing this on you so suddenly, but you really are ideally qualified for this mission. We need a girl like you to play a role in a computer simulation.”

  “What . . . a computer game?”

  “A very, very sophisticated computer game.”

  “Okay, General, I’m listening.” This didn’t sound so bad: playing a character in a computer game might be a lot of fun.

  And a million bucks was a million bucks.

  The general didn’t say anything. It was as though he didn’t quite know how to proceed with the conversation; he just gazed out of the window and absentmindedly tapped his pencil on the desk.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Finally he gave Ella a rueful smile and continued. “Before I begin, Miss Thomas, I am obliged to tell you that this mission has a certain element of danger attached to it.”

  Ah, shit . . . good-bye, college.

  What was the old adage? Anything that seemed too good to be true was too good to be true.

  Ella swallowed hard, trying to mask her disappointment. She didn’t quite know what to make of what this general person was saying. This whole interview was teetering on the surreal. All she was was a singer trying to raise enough money to get to college and to keep her kid brother out of trouble. She wasn’t a heroine. She didn’t do danger. But then all they were asking her to do was play some stupid computer game. She asked the obvious question. “How dangerous?”

  “Very.”

  What sort of computer game is this?

  “Oh come on, don’t be coy, General, sir: what are the chances I’ll get to spend the million?”

  The general sat back in his chair and massaged the bridge of his nose. He was a man under a lot of pressure. “Okay . . . the chances of you surviving the mission are fifty-fifty: one chance in two. But the million would be paid regardless of the outcome,” he added quickly. “In the event of your failing . . .”

  “Failing,” or as it’s better known in less polite circles, “getting slotted.”

  “ . . . the money will still be paid to your next of kin.”

  Oh great, so I get a one-way ticket to Slab Central and Billy gets the chance to see how quickly he can shove a million bucks’ worth of coke up his nose.

  Ella pushed the idea of dying to one side; she’d worry about that later. Like in seventy years.

  “Why me? You’ve got the whole American armed forces to choose from. There must be someone in the army with a decent set of pipes; there must be someone who can sing jazz. There must be someone out there better qualified than me.”

  The general shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, the army is full of jazz singers, Miss Thomas, but unfortunately not one of them can match the requirements necessary to fulfill this mission. That is why we have undertaken this somewhat protracted audition process. You, Miss Thomas, are a very special young woman, combining as you do vocal ability, intelligence, beauty, physical and mental resilience and a specific racial aspect.”

  Oh, come on, General, let’s call a spade a spade. I ain’t got a “racial aspect.” I’ve got a black skin.

  “This combination of talents means you are the only person who can undertake this mission. You are unique.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The general finally realized he’d been playing with the pencil and put it firmly down on his desk. “So, Miss Thomas, before I go any further, I need to know if you are interested in my proposition.”

  Really she had no option. The life she could see stretching before her could be summarized in the declension “broke, broker, brokest.” She was just a dirt-poor nobody with a junkie for a brother, and prospects that w
ere zero and falling. People like her didn’t turn down the chance to pocket a million bucks.

  “Oh, I’m interested, General, sir. In fact I’ve got a million bucks’ worth of interest. But before I sign on the dotted line I’m gonna need a lot more information.”

  “Very well, Miss Thomas; what I am about to apprise you of is highly classified. Divulging any of this information to non-authorized personnel is a criminal offense . . . a very serious criminal offense, one for which you could go to prison for a very long time. Do you understand?”

  It was Ella’s turn to nod and at that instant it seemed as though the walls of the general’s office had closed in on her. She had the distinct impression that things were about to get a whole lot heavier.

  “Do you know what Asymmetric Warfare is, Miss Thomas?”

  Dumb Question #3.

  “Yeah, I had one once but the wheels fell off.”

  The general obviously didn’t do humor; he simply ignored Ella’s quip. “Asymmetric Warfare is the U.S. military’s name for all those messy little conflicts that our country keeps finding itself fighting in hellish places like Afghanistan, Iraq and Pakistan. They are wars without rules and without honor and, to be blunt, they are wars that the U.S. Army isn’t particularly good at fighting. When the U.S. military began to study its performance in Asymmetric Warfare Environments it discovered that its soldiers, especially its officers, weren’t effective because they had no appreciation or understanding of what sort of war they would be fighting. So in order to prepare them better the U.S. Army InDoctrination and Training Command came up with the idea of creating a computer simulation that would let our combat personnel experience what was waiting for them in Peshawar and desperate places like it.”

  “The Demi-Monde?” Ella ventured.

  “Got it in one, Miss Thomas. The Demi-Monde is the most sophisticated, the most complex and the most terrifying computer simulation ever devised. It’s a simulation that re-creates the visceral anxiety and fear of being in an AWE—”