Master In His Tomb

by Jack Holloway

  A thoughtful growl through from the box. “To proofs! If you are one of them, what is the password?”

  “I don’t believe I know what a password is in this context. Is that like a parole?”

  “Yes. It’s very much like a parole.” A querulous note the unseen speaker’s voice, “You could almost say it is the same damned thing. Now, if you would be so kind...”

  “I’m still clueless, I’m afraid young man.”

  A derisive snort from Ariadne. “Many a true word spoken in jest eh Lumpy?”

  There’s a buzz of static from the speaker. “Alright, so no password. That’s good as they didn’t set one. It was a question of tricks. So, next step. Simple follow up question, and I feel like a total noodle asking it but, there you go, that’s been my life for some time now.” A deep, deep sigh followed by a muttered. “…are you here to save us?”

  “Sorry my man, but I don’t think my pointy-toothed friend quite heard ya!” Ariadne is a witch; malice is a given.

  A loud cough. “Oh God in Heaven. Are. You. Here. To. Save. Us? That is the question. I am not going to repeat it. It makes my mouth extremely sad.”

  “And it is an odd question.” I ponder, as odd a question as it is, it is one that merits a serious answer. “In general terms I suppose my aim is to save everyone affected by the current unfortunate turn of events. Then we need to consider the tautological aspects of the issue you raise…” Groans from the box, speed-up gestures from Ariadne. I narrow my eyes at my companion and gesture at the angry skies and the wasteland that surrounds us. “So yes. Yes, I am here to save you.”

  “And they said you’d say that. Lucky me.” The voice recedes. “Been quite a while since I’ve had any of that. They also said you were a talker so I’m getting the book… you wait there. Not that you have a choice. Ha ha. Big door. Ha ha.”

  From the timbre of his voice I am dealing with an old man with a High German accent. Bavarian or Swiss maybe? And he is the other side of a heavy door that neither I nor my companions can move in any reasonable amount of time. He also appears to be at least moderately insane, with occasional flashes of borderline coherence. And he seems to know a bit about either me, vampires or the random people who I am beginning to suspect stroll at will through his head.

  Not sure what I’d expected from a man who lives in a monument to folly. Maybe what I’d expect from someone who’s been holding a message for too long.

  The box crackles back into life. “A test.”

  “Seriously?” Ariadne groans. “From the crap so far this message must be the location of the fountain of youth.”

  I nod and return my attention to our gatekeeper. “If you are suggesting this test could allow us entry to your bunker then I suppose we should take you up on it. Then we can move on to more important matters. Primary in that list being to make sure you are safe. And will remain safe here.” I look to the skies. “It seems an odd place to spend a retirement, my friend.”

  Or I could just move on to Paris. Now. Whatever my former colleagues have waiting for me, I have a very efficient counter. It is difficult to see what I will gain from a message held by a borderline insane human living in a bunker under a monument to another most likely insane human. Any information will most likely be stale at best.

  And I have places to be and people (in the broadest sense of the word) to interrogate. The only thing that’s keeping me here now is obligation. To confirm whether this presumptive lunatic is beyond help or in the alternative whether he should be left in as safe a position as possible.

  Perhaps with a pony for company and transport?

  Now there’s an idea. There is the sound of pages being thumbed. “What…”

  Ariadne is dancing from foot to foot in irritation. “Now there I was thinking that this would be a ‘why’ sort of question. Hey! You in there! Could you just let us in? It’s snowing out here and this idiot vampire can answer questions just as well inside as out. My fingers are going numb. Thinking they might be icicles if this goes on much longer. I need my fingers! For witching!”

  The sound of a finger tapping on a book. “It is cold out there. I suppose you are correct. And you remind me of a friend I miss greatly. Please hold.”

  The door grinds open, sliding across into its housing. “Well.” I say. “I honestly wasn’t expecting that. Well done Ariadne.”

  She grins a big toothy smile. She can prove useful to have around at the most unexpected of moments.

  The voice crackles from the speaker as the door clicks into its housing. “Don’t sound so surprised. I am a reasonable man. If I had known that was a woman with you, I would have let you in earlier, I’m not a monster – I am, in fact, an officer and a gentleman. I’ll test your friend in the bunker. The fresh air will be bracing. I never have been able to get the temperature cool enough in here.”

  “See? All we had to do was… wait. What did he mean if he’d known I was woman? What the hell does he think I am? A bloke in a dress? With this hat?”

  I sigh. “You will have to ask him yourself young lady. And there is nothing wrong with a man wearing a dress. Many of the ancients would have found your get-up bizarre, Miss Witch.”

  “Fair point.”

  We enter the bunker, there is a short tunnel which takes a couple of sharp turns, leading to a second door which stands open. Beyond this is a spacious antechamber which has been set up in a facsimile of a comfortable home with what I assume to be the furniture and fittings missing from the guest centre.

  I can think of no other reason for the elderly gentleman’s otherwise bewildering obsession with ‘Russia Lives’ fabric throws, and pillows with moustachioed Generals printed on them. He has a homemade bookcase with a profusion of cheap novels, and a table on which a half-built model tank sits next to a tube of glue.

  Oh television knowledge dump. I know what a tube of glue is, yet you fail me when it comes to intercoms.

  Far behind us the outer door slides shut. A hiss follows as whatever filtration device keeps the air in this bunker breathable, cuts in.

  Our interlocutor was correct. It is stuffy in here.

  And there he is. A man in an old military uniform studying us from a chair set next to a coffee table in a shadowy corner. The table is heavily laden with a radio, yes I know what a radio is, a magazine pistol with a couple of spare magazines containing a liquid propellant and hardened ash caps, and a book over which he is running a spindly finger.

  The back of the room is stacked high with crates labelled “emergency ration pack – Union abandoned zones. Feeds 30*7 BB 30/1/2095”. It would appear the Union does waste resources, contra Mr. Pole.

  He taps the pistol meaningfully. “I’d suggest your friends take a seat whilst I conduct the test. It won’t take long and it looks like they need the rest. He frowns. “Particularly the pony. Why do you have a pony?”

  “Pack animal,” suggests Ariadne raising her perfectly coiffed eyebrows.

  “And that.”

  “Golem.” She says. “Not worth the story.”

  “He will have to stand, or… stoop. Maybe sit on the floor, he looks particularly tired.”

  “I could do with a sit down.” Emmett confirms.

  The others take the hint and sit down, Emmet settling on to a rug that is also a map of Paris, with a sound like a small avalanche impacting on a bear. I’m left facing the hunched soldierly old man who proposes to ‘test’ me.

  His uniform has benefitted from many years of patching making him look a bit like a militaristic rag doll.

  Bizarrely the insignia on his chest is the familiar moon and stars of the Family, and he has at least a dozen bits of fabric and metal lined along his chest which I take to be some kind of medals or decorations. I can see an old automatic rifle in the far corner, hidden by the shadows of the ration boxes to go with his automatic pistol.

  “Tiresome things, they drop them every three weeks and I have built up quite the supply.” He grimaces. “What they call coffee is a crime
and given my abundance of tinned mulch, if you want a selection of tinned peas or hard tack, you are very welcome to them.”

  “I can live without it.”

  “And that is the question.” He fixes with me a glare and pops in a silver rimmed monocle. “Another tacky replacement. My father’s monocle was stolen years ago during the evacuation. And so, this jerry-rigged, ha ha, monstrosity. I made it with some watch parts and a lens that had not cracked. Ironically, I am not a Prussian, but the affectation amuses me.”

  He adjusts the monocle and pulls his hair back against his head. “Look at me! I am Hans Von Seeckt!” Maybe Emmet gets the joke, he does chuckle, but it flies over my head. “Now, if you would bear with me for a moment. I must find the right text. Why are books written in this stupid tiny font so much?”

  I can hear Ariadne heave a sigh of relief, “ah, the old git couldn’t see me.” I favour her a sour look.

  “Cease and desist, Ariadne.”

  “Old git couldn’t see you? Yes, but he can still hear you just fine Madchen.” He returns his attention to his book and runs his finger under his chosen text. Then he looks up at me fixing me with that ridiculous monocle.

  “So. A testing.” A drumroll. Metaphorically. “If I said that Serah was a fine artist, what kind of fine artist would Serah be?”

  I smile. “Master Serah was a portrait painter, though she dabbled in landscapes. The last I saw of her work she was quite adept at the seascapes of the Belgian coast, but in short I would say she was a painter.”

  “And, to follow. What is the fifth sign of the Family Council.”

  “Orion.” Stupid vampire horoscopes.

  The stress falls from the old soldier’s shoulders. “I fear our lady wrote these questions herself. Fine art is a little bit of a stretch.” He closes the book and does something to the pistol besides him before putting it in a holster. “Well Sunny Jim, I will admit to being surprised. You came back. Master Albrecht himself. Finally.” He narrows his eyes. “You are very very late.”

  “I suppose you could put it that way. I’ve never had any particular urge to come here. Always found it a bit too… French.” I chuckle. “I did enjoy messing with their governments though.”

  “What?”

  “Anyway, that’s all history. From what I hear I think of myself more as the one that got away. And I believe that you now have me at a disadvantage, Herr Oberst…”

  He nods. “It is good. We speak English now, I am Colonel ahh, let’s call me Stauffenberg.”

  He gestures at his uniform and the insignia on his chest. “You’ll notice from my sadly worn uniform that I worked with some of your colleagues during the Russian War. A great deal of fighting and they took me into their confidences near the end.” The Colonel sizes me up. “You are as they said. I’d like to say they had nice things to say about you but that would be a bit of an untruth much like Serah’s belief in her own art work, and I am not a fan of the lie. I may not be old compared to you but I have seen too much of that.”

  This is actually interesting. “What did my children and siblings have to say about me, Colonel?”

  He pops out his cheeks with a faintly ridiculous sound. “Mostly they seemed scared you’d come back, until things started going really wrong. Then, all the arguments about whether they wanted you back and exactly where they’d buried you, and at the very end when Ivan was knocking at the door? Well you’ll find that out yourself soon enough.”

  “They were of course disappointed.” He points around the bunker. I’m not sure he’s pointing at anything in particular. Maybe the ridiculous cushions. “You never did turn up.”

  “Not a matter of choice Colonel. I fear that the minor disagreement I had with the more militant of my family snowballed to the point that my freedom of action was circumscribed.”

  “Yes. They buried you. I have said that.”

  “True. But if I’d known about this, I would have done my best to be here for the party. I have always valued family.”

  “Yes. Yes. I think that was what they were afraid of. ‘Party’.” He goes over to the nearest ration box. “I will make coffee for your witch, does anyone want some tinned fruit? I have condensed milk and biscuits to go with it.”

  “Some over here please Mr. Military Man” waves Ariadne who has been listening intently. “I’m starving.”

  He bustles around, surprisingly spry for his age. “And I finally have a use for these awful English Oats. I think your pony will like them. The cat will have to settle for tuna.”

  A huge purr from Hemlock.

  “Ah…” he looks at Emmet. “… gravel?”

  “Don’t worry about Emmet. He’ll be fine.”

  “Good. Good. I do not wish to be rude.” He disappears into a side room. “I will talk to you a little more in a moment. I have a message, but I also have hungry guests. You will have to wait.”

  “I can hardly complain at such hospitality.”

  From the silver of his hair and the long parallel lines down his face I’d put him in his late 60s, but it could be that the life he’s lived has aged him prematurely. I think the others believe this is part of my plan, though probably not the meal he is preparing for each. It is really not. I have no idea who this man is other than his name and that he seems quite polite if a little Teutonic.

  If there’s a plan here, it’s one put in place by long dead Masters. And I am not sure I haven’t already missed some vital element.

  “You will have some coffee?”

  “Thank you.” No reason for rudeness. Though I limit myself to a couple of sips of the accurately described ‘awful coffee’, sweetened with condensed milk. Whatever the Union is using for coffee beans, they are nothing natural.

  “So.” He sips his ‘coffee’. “We talk. We make small talk. Then a message from your friends. I will start. What are you doing here?”

  “Well I suppose there are two things.” I raise a finger. “Maybe three, given that you say you have a message.”

  “You know that!”

  “I do.” No reason to deny it. “I have my own sources.”

  He tilts his head. “I would rather not engage in an overly long discussion. I was very serious about the small element of the talk. I am old and I think that you may bring trouble with you.”

  I tip my head to him. “A brisk run through then?”

  “That would be acceptable.”

  Ariadne has something to say, likely an insult, but is torn between slurping condensed milk and fruit juice from a bowl and speaking. She sticks with the meal.

  “Colonel, first I will be confirming that you are safe before we go, second I will be visiting my old hunt-stomping grounds in Paris to collect some papers I need for a little project I think of as…” I put force in the next words. “Restoring the world.”

  “Hmm,” replies the German.

  Slightly deflated I continue. “Third I will be obtaining this message that Mistress Serah left.” I smile, “was that brisk enough for you.”

  A wry look passes over his face. “Still verbose, but we will live with it. Walking to Paris will not be pleasant. Miserable place even before the last war and the gentleman in charge is quite the… schweinhund.”

  “Oh, who is it?”

  “I do not remember his name. It is not important. And so to the message.” He clears some of the ration boxes away and steps back, “I was sure it was a little closer to the top of the pile. There is rather more than I thought there were. Some help please?”

  Emmet moves to assist, and between soldier and golem a hidden computer terminal is soon revealed. As with all the items at the memorial it appears to be of the same standardised form as the ones back at my tomb, though as it is built into the wall, I’m assuming it’s a fixture rather than something dragged from the visitor’s centre like the rest of the Colonel’s stash.

  Hemlock purrs around the boxes now scattered around the floor before settling on his hindquarters and leaping into one.

  “I h
ave a fondness for cats. That one may need a diet however.”

  The Colonel taps away at the buttons and switches on the outside cameras. The screens flicker on to reveal the usual snowscape in red. There is no one around.

  “I check that we are alone, this is a message for you. No one else. Too many of your relatives have taken to lurking to see if they can sneak a look into my sanctuary. And Union men, endless with their stupid requests.”

  “Not safe then?”

  “You may keep you concerns about my wellbeing, I am still able to look after myself and I am rather too old and sour in any event to be worth the effort. But just to make sure…” he flicks another switch and the UV lamps burn away the bleak darkness in a buzz of electric blue light.

  I wince. “That’s… bright. I’m glad to see that you’re safe and comfortable – do you have enough to eat? Water?”

  A laugh. “Supplies here for decades. Was it rooted to C: or D:. Does D: even still work… There are entire storage rooms below which the Union stocked before they left, and the drone drops never stop. I hurt a little for fresh food now and then but there are vitamins and similar. I eat better than you would think.” A sad laugh. “The fools seem to think that there are still people around other than me. They got the last of those years ago. So I’m fine – like I’ve always been.”

  He pauses. “Did I mention I spent the apocalypse in a supermarket?”

  I perform a double-take at Ariadne who just shrugs. “A what now?”

  “Oh, you would have missed that. Not C:, was there an external root drive?”

  “Is it a shop? I’ve been picking up bits and pieces from the television.”

  Raised eyebrows from the Colonel. “Ha ha, television. That’s a blast. If you wish to experience that mind-rot I believe the Union has a couple of channels. Some history or what passes for it. Current affairs in the form of their endless reshuffles. And light opera. I was thinking of repairing the old pipeline, but I don’t really have the tools of that inclination and the bandwidth keeps dropping of late. That,” he gestures upwards. “Makes reception touch and go without a hardline. Unless you like screaming.”