Wolves of Dacia - Chapter Ten – The Bridge

[Miki Yamuri]

Chapter Ten – The Bridge

Wolves of Dacia – Anthony Burns, all rights reserved

“No doubt about it, sir,” whispered Sergeant Lang, passing the field-glasses to Captain Meinert and crouching lower into the undergrowth. “Concealed guard post, a hundred yards ahead, give or take. Well camouflaged, too. I reckon we’d have gone right by it, if it hadn’t been for these local boys. Civilians or not, they’re more used to the terrain than our lads.”

The civilians in question were, at present, some small distance behind with the main body of storm troopers, save for one of them: a wiry, weathered veteran of the Iron Guard, we were many of the volunteers, who had been scouting ahead of the main group and had been the first to sight the enemy lookout. Although civilians, and several of them much older than Meinert’s troopers, their physical fitness for this expedition was in no doubt, nor their loathing for the Roma, communists, Jews, or whoever else lay behind this mysterious resistance unit. Nevertheless, Meinert was less than enthused at having these foreign “auxiliaries” under his command even on a casual basis, the good soldier in him disliking their slovenly, undisciplined demeanour, and the good Nazi party member in him extremely doubtful that any of them was a sterling example of pure Aryan blood, untainted by the inferior races so rampant in this much-invaded mongrel nation. However, he had to concede that his own men had proven woefully ill-prepared for combat in this terrain, not to mention that they had no idea of the true strength of the enemy, since it was no mere rabble of verminous gypsies they were now contending with. The presence of the guard post confirmed that, not that it was an insurmountable obstacle in itself. In fact, he could think of numerous ways of dealing with it in very short order, though he realised it would make sense to sacrifice pure satisfaction for stealthier options.

“Any thoughts, sir?” asked Lang, as his superior gazed through the binoculars towards a thick yet innocuous-looking patch of shrubs, where the careless scrape and flare of a cigarette lighter had recently betrayed the inhabitant to the keen senses of their local scout. “The ground slopes up to the south. If I could crawl to the higher ground I could lob a grenade right into his lap, no trouble, only-”

“That would announce our presence to everyone for miles around, yes. We have have to be more subtle than that. I think the real question is, can these peasants sneak up on a sentry as well as they can sniff him out, and make good, silent use of a knife?”

“Like as not, sir. No point trying to take him alive, you think? If we could, we might learn a bit more about this resistance outfit.”

“Call me fastidious, Sergeant, but I wouldn’t give guard duty on my outermost perimeter to anyone in possession of any real information, or to someone who wouldn’t take the first opportunity to send a warning to his comrades. As I mean for us to proceed, I think we can manage without such an addition to our merry band, so detail one of these Romanians to pay our watchful friend a visit … if you follow my drift, and if any of those unwashed yokels have the stomach for it.”

Judging from the venomous scowl their scout flashed in Captain Meinert’s direction, he did not take kindly to this description. Fine by me, thought Meinert, and if by some chance it happens to motivate the scum to prove their combat worth, then so much the better. He considered returning to the main unit with Lang, if only for the satisfaction of delivering the news of the enemy post to Brother Shandor, and decimating his childish illusions of vampires and pagan goddesses, but thought better of it. Keeping the guard post under constant surveillance while it remained manned made a lot more sense than telling Shandor – who had made his reluctance to guiding their party very clear – any more than was necessary, and especially since Meinert was not entirely convinced that the anchorite was as stupidly innocent of the true nature of this enemy plot as he claimed. He was, however, in no doubt that he was in superstitious company: though none of the Romanian auxiliaries had a very spiritual air, several of them were wearing crucifixes, and there was a distinct odour of garlic about the party that made Meinert extremely grateful that they were downwind from the guard post. Thankfully, although they looked (and smelled) as if they ought to have been brandishing pitchforks and flaming torches, they had brought a far more practical selection of shotguns, revolvers, and Bowie knives. They were certainly not a picturesque addition to the unit, but Meinert was prepared to forgive them any amount of unattractiveness provided that one of them was subtle, dextrous, and unprincipled enough to dispose of the nearby sentry, preferably without him even knowing about it.
Sergeant Lang soon returned as he had left, in proper infantry fashion, crawling along on his elbows and stomach, though not quite stealthily enough to make Meinert regret that he had given this latest mission to the local talent.

“Man’s on his way, sir,” he announced, in a tone that might have sounded, to the casual listener, to be referring to some visiting tradesman rather than an impending homicide. “Might take him a few minutes: he’s coming the long way around, to take him from behind. A couple more of those Romanians are scouting north and south, checking to see if it’s just the one guard post in this area. They thought we’d best be sure we only need to take out the one if we’re to lead the whole unit through unseen, or if they’re too closely-spaced that we need to-”

“I get the idea, Sergeant,” interrupted Meinert, highly irritated that he had not thought to order this reconnaissance mission himself. “Just as long as this peasant has the wit to complete his errand without giving the game away.”

“He ought to have had the practice, sir. I gather he’s a poacher the rest of the time.”

If this seemed rather a slender qualification, it was not very long before it received an excellent supporting reference in the form of a short cry, stifled so quickly that anyone who had not been expecting it might easily have mistaken it for a bird or animal caught in a snare. Nevertheless, Meinert did not take its origin for granted (though he was extremely confident of it, being no stranger to the sounds of human demise). Some second later, however, there was a shrill, bird-like whistle from the direction of the covert, which their scout evidently interpreted as a signal, giving them a sullen yet reassuring nod. So far so good, and high time we made our move. Ideally, Meinert would have preferred a night attack, but two facts stood in the way of delaying the advance: the certainty that the dead guard would, sooner or later, be relieved, and the superstition of his Romanian allies, who had vetoed that idea right from the outset. While they were quite happy to participate in an afternoon of ethnic cleansing, they had expressed unconquerable reluctance to the notion of spending a night in these woods, so time was of the essence.

“Let’s regroup, Sergeant,” he ordered, noting with vexation that their scout had not waited for any such order before setting out on his own return journey. “Unless these boys have found another post within spitting distance, I see no reason why we shouldn’t take advantage of knowing that we are, at any rate, on the track of something serious. Let’s not forget to spare an eye for our friend Brother Shandor. I’m fairly satisfied he hasn’t the wit to lead us intentionally into a trap, but for all his vaunted religious convictions he seems to find it disturbingly easy to switch sides.”

“As you say, sir, though I’d be amazed if that old soak would have the nerve to double-cross the SS.”

“He might, if the odds turn against us. We don’t really know what we’re up against, after all, but it’s too late for us to sign up for cushy desk jobs. Come to that, I wish that green-faced nancy-boy of a lieutenant could have been here, and seen some real action, but as Dragomir was planning to betray us I can see why he sent him packing so quickly.”

“I was thinking about the lieutenant, sir. You reckon he might have been a plant? I mean, if someone in the SD or Gestapo had their eye on Dragomir already, maybe they’d have sent him to be his aide, with orders to act like a complete rookie so as to put him off his guard.”

“That would make him a damn good actor, if nothing else, but I suppose it’s always possible. I sincerely hope not, though. As we seem to be doing all the work, it would be sad irony if some undercover pen-pusher reaped all the credit for it. Let’s go,” he finally added, then stood, turned, and set out back in the direction of the main unit. As her emerged from the undergrowth, there was no reaction from the concealed guard post, and although he was already ninety-nine percent sure of the fate of its recent occupant, ultimate confirmation was nonetheless gratifying to have. One down, and how many left to go? Well, the more the merrier.

************

Sunset was still a good two hours away, but the candles were already lit in the director’s office and the dark blue velvet curtains drawn, giving the room a decidedly nocturnal ambience even in full daylight. Miss Bendice, unlike her disciples, could work perfectly efficiently in daylight hours, as long as she did not over exert her psychic abilities. Nonetheless, she had a powerful instinct that it was not her natural time, and she would gladly have been resting had the situation been any less pressing. Such inconvenience did not predispose her to think kindly of the colonel’s troublesome “guests”, but she prided herself on being just, so in order to calm her spirits as she waited to interrogate them, she took out her notebook and resumed writing her draft charter for the New Order.
She had reached the difficult issue of human blood consumption: an unnecessary practice that, alas, many of her disciples considered to be their natural right, and which they would have high hopes of exercising in a world in which it was the mortals who were reduced to living in tiny, scattered communities, without the civilised protections they now enjoyed. Miss Bendice was not in favour of it. Although experiments to cultivate suitable blood from domestic species had proven disappointing, the blood of wild animals was a perfectly acceptable source of energy. As long as the population of immortals stayed within the limits she had set, there was certainly no reason for them to have to prey on the mortal survivors of the war. Banning the consumption of human blood altogether, however, risked losing her the support of her more “traditionalist” disciples, who might then drift off into breakaway factions of their own, and in so doing completely ruin her carefully-laid plans for a peaceful, stable world. A compromise would be necessary, but how to manage it justly? Let us see … she thought, setting pen to paper:

Concerning the hunting of mortals. This will be considered a violation of the Charter for Protection and dealt with as an act of criminal assault or murder, according to the consequences. Human blood drinking may, however, be permitted if the donor is demonstrably willing (However, if transmission of mutation is intended, the immortal must first obtain permission from Population Management). It may also be permitted as a form of punishment for crimes committed by mortals that are of sufficient severity to merit the attention of the Inner Court. On no account is it to be used for crimes of lesser severity, such as may be dealt with on a community-by-community basis. Human blood may also be traded as a commodity, subject to the following conditions: 1) That the donor is willing. 2) That no weapons, technology, or classified information is given in exchange. 3) That the mortal / donor is not an outlaw from their own community or declared a criminal by the Inner Court. 4) That the immortal / recipient is also of lawful status and of sound …

At that point there was a knock upon the office door, and having returned the notebook to its drawer and assumed a suitably authoritative stance, her fine white hands steepled upon the desk, she gave the command to enter. First through the door was Dragomir; followed by the Romani girl; then the German officer; then Mercedes Navarro, her pistol drawn; and another of the guards: Dimitri Miusov, also with his pistol drawn, and his otherwise handsome face marred by the combined effects of daytime-induced nauseous fatigue, and by his obvious loathing for the officer. That was not surprising, as he was ex-Red Army. While serving in Ukraine, his patrol had been ambushed by the SS, and only he and one of his comrades had survived by taking refuge in a Scythian burial chamber. That tomb, however, was also the long-term refuge of an immortal: a princess of that ancient kingdom, looking none the worse for age, and certainly fetching enough to inspire Dimitri to protect her from being knifed through the heart by his superstitious comrade (now deceased). It was a matter of honour that any mortal who saved the life of an immortal had to be converted in turn, and in any case it made sense to recruit trained soldiers as well as scientists and engineers (Especially considering that not all of the technical staff had been, strictly speaking, entirely willing recruits, and might well have attempted escape or worse but for the constant presence of Mercedes and her fellow gunslingers breathing down their necks).
For the present, however, Miss Bendice preferred not to invite the prospect of a bloodbath in her office, and even a non-telepath could have deduced from her guests’ weary faces that they had little resistance to offer. She could sense a shade more defiance in the girl, but nothing that called for two guns at her back.

“Thank you Mercedes, Dimitri. You may return to your normal duties. I expect I shall probably survive a meeting with these two. Sit, children,” she ordered, and sensed as they both experienced a flash of annoyance at being thus patronised, but quickly suppressed it as they sank dejectedly and obediently into the chairs that faced her desk. A promising sign. The guards left the office, while the colonel lounged against the wall with feigned indifference. Why he bothered to put on such airs in her presence was more than even she could intuit. In spite of centuries of effort, her telepathy was limited to reading conscious thought and emotions in unguarded minds. Deep memories, the subconscious, and devious minds were, by and large, a closed book. She felt that there had to be a solution to this. After all, her immortal powers were, it was fair to say, stolen from the entities on the other side of the Bridge, and they were very capable of taking whatever they pleased from the minds of mortals, and using it to destroy or dominate as suited their purposes. She had found that capability of theirs to be of some use, enabling her to take potential new recruits to the Bridge where the invaders would be certain to bring their deepest, darkest memories to the surface, where even she could read them, and thus get a much better idea if they were worthy material for her cause. Harsh, perhaps, and not without risks to the lives and sanity of said recruits, but Miss Bendice was of the opinion that one could not be too cautious when it came to granting immortality.
That issue would not arise with her present guests. The hauntings had become so rife of late that there was no escaping the fact that the Bridge had become dangerously active, making it highly unlikely any mortal who entered the inner sanctum would leave it with their soul, never mind their sanity. Thankfully, there was no pressing need to probe their psyches so violently: she had a complete dossier on the lieutenant, which informed her that he had no real military experience and was essentially a moderately promising, inoffensive art student who had received an extremely sheltered upbringing. She had no such information on the girl, but her mind was positively crystalline: bright, sharp, and far clearer than the hazy fog that passed for the lieutenant’s mind, or the treacherous and overgrown dark forest that passed for Dragomir’s. Not at all unlike her mother’s, though we can but hope a little more open-minded.

“My assistant director has informed me all about you,” she declared, with delicate emphasis and a curt nod towards Dragomir. The calculated insult sank into the depths of his mental dark forest without even ruffling a leaf, much to her vexation, though she too kept her feeling closely guarded, and turned back to her visitors. “I am Diana Bendice; director of this project, and sworn to its success at all costs. That being the case, it is hard for me to know whether I owe you gratitude or punishment. Your courage in dealing with our little haunting in the stationery room cannot be denied, but sabotage of LOCI is a serious issue. Have you anything to say for yourselves?”

“We didn’t sabotage anything,” protested the young woman. “I admit, I had a go at using your machine to help us escape, but if your ‘assistant’ hadn’t been so secretive in the first place-”

“You would have chosen to stay of your own free will?” interrupted Miss Bendice, ironically, though pleased at the sincerity she sensed in her mind. “Let us not labour that point, however. It is no news to me that Dragomir does not exactly inspire confidence, and I do not believe that you intended harm. There are greater matters for us to attend to. Before we proceed, have you any pressing questions?”

“Actually … Ma’am,” hazarded the Romani woman, with painstaking respectfulness, while fear and curiosity vied for dominance in her mind, “I was wondering … your name: is it a codename, Ma’am? Only I seem to remember that ‘Bendis’ is the Thracian name for the Roman goddess Diana, also known-”

“As Artemis, Hecate, Skadi, Flidais … and so forth,” interrupted Miss Bendice, with airy amusement, while reflecting that her young guest certainly had a powerful desire to prove her intelligence, and her fear of being taken for a mere peasant was even stronger than her fear of death. Such a kind might readily be persuaded to join her cause. “Congratulations, Miss Petrescu. Indeed, I do not use my proper name these days. All who ever knew it are dead, save myself. I doubt I could even spell it in the Latin script. For administrative purposes, however, I have settled for ‘Diana Bendice’. Are you surprised, child? Have you not seen enough by now to be open-minded on the subject of immortal beings, at least?”

“Yes …” she replied, without sounding overly positive, “but you’re not a mulo … are you? You don’t look … well, you do look different, but not …”

“Not in the sense of having fangs, eyes that glow red in the dark, and hairy palms, you mean? That, alas, is the lot of my poor children. Their immortality, in his words,” she added, with a brief, less-than-amicable gesture towards Dragomir, “is only a ‘mutation’ of the original. I was one of the fortunate few acolytes who received the original. It was a dangerous ritual. Zalmoxis learned it in his travels …but such mysteries are not to be spoken of loosely. Suffice it to say, we first immortals later learned we could expand our circle without the ritual, simply by passing on our blood. A safer option, but not without side-effects. I have control over my appearance, whereas they are condemned to wear their predatory instincts upon their faces. ‘A psychosomatic effect of genetic race memory’, as I believe you called it, Colonel. Was that not the conclusion of your experiments?” she asked, with a vague effort to repress her contempt, more to avoid an unnecessary argument than out of consideration for his feelings. Though she was broadly supportive of making a scientific study of her “species”, the whole business of converting unworthy captives, sending them for laboratory analysis, and finally sending the survivors of analysis down to the catacombs had been a struggle to come to terms with, and was now a hateful burden of responsibility that she was a long way from forgiving him for having laid upon her.

“It is my preferred theory, but we did not reach a conclusion, as such,” answered Dragomir, dispassionately. “Vampires are not the best zoological specimens. We can’t perform biopsies, as any tissue removed from them reverts to ordinary human tissue, just as they revert when they are killed. Regrettably, that only enables us to experiment on live subjects, limiting the thoroughness of our tests.”

“You were thorough enough, if the sickening sights I have been unfortunate enough to witness in your laboratories are any indication,” replied Miss Bendice, losing her detachment in the face of his obscene indifference. “Acts of torture and mutilation that not even the Roman invaders would have-”

“All in the interests of your ‘New Order’, if memory serves,” he interrupted, icily. “I’ve no doubt it would please you if you could turn the clock back to the jolly old Paleolithic Age, but sadly we are past the days when one could hope to be mistaken for a deity on the strength of a few scraps of occult hocus-pocus. Scientific knowledge of your immortality – a true understanding of its nature – will enable you to overcome its inherent weaknesses, and control its powers more effectively.”

“Perhaps, if only that was your true motivation, but as we know perfectly well-”

“My motivations are my own business, and if I am generous enough to share the knowledge I gain to your advantage, I fail to see why you should complain. But I see that von Ritter wishes to contribute to this happy gathering,” he pointed out, noticing the raised hand of the lieutenant, giving him an unfortunate resemblance to a nervous schoolboy in an incongruous Wehrmacht uniform. “Well, out with it, lad. We’re all uneasy allies here.”

“I … err … was just wondering about this ‘New Order’ you mentioned … Ma’am,” he mumbled, while continually making and breaking eye contact with Miss Bendice, who looked back at him steadily and patiently. “I assume you don’t mean by that the Fuhrer’s plans for-”

“You assume correctly,” she cut in, with a contemptuous edge.

“I see. Then you’re working for the British … Russians … Americans?” he ventured, the confidence draining progressively from his voice as the stony expression before him persisted. “None of my business, then … only I am a bit concerned-”

“That you will be listed as a deserter and you family arrested,” she interrupted, having seen most vividly the images of hard-faced Gestapo officers; dark, windowless rooms; thumbscrews; piano wire; and torn-out fingernails that kept playing over in his mind. “I understand, but you may put your mind at rest. While I cannot guarantee the safety of any mortals in the long term, for the present I believe your colonel here has made all necessary arrangements.”

“Just so,” declared Dragomir. “I gave that pious fool Shandor orders to take your motorcycle to one of the most treacherous turnings on the mountain road and push it into the crevasse. It will be assumed you left Predeal at night, unseen, crashed on your return journey, survived from the fall, but having wandered away from the wreck you died of your injuries or of exposure. In these conditions, they won’t waste too much time or effort trying to sift the wilderness for your corpse. That ought to quell any suspicions. I trust that reassures you, Lieutenant.”

“Very thoughtful, but I don’t recall joining your army, or this ‘New Order’ of yours,” said Andreea, to Dragomir and Miss Bendice in turn, while Johann replied only with a most unreassured expression. “Also, Ma’am … with all due respect … I wasn’t too keen on what you just told the lieutenant about not guaranteeing the safety of mortals ‘in the long term’. He isn’t the only one with a family. What, may I ask, are you and your ‘children’ planning to do with them?”

“I? Nothing,” she answered, with an overly innocent air that she immediately regretted, as it left her the choice between explaining more fully than she had intended or leaving her guest feeling fully justified in her suspicion. She opted for the former: “If the race of mortals are endangered, they have only their own bloodlust to blame for it. You have seen our machine: LOCI, bequeathed to us by the late Professor Curwen … and you needn’t look at me like that, child,” she added, sensing the suspicion that Andreea was accurately entertaining. “He was a greedy, petty, soulless being who would cheerfully have sold his inventions to the highest-bidding tyrant without a thought for the consequences. Now that we have his greatest invention, the world can do very well without him, and if we could but deal the same way with many other so-called geniuses …LOCI, you see, is not merely a glorified adding machine. One might dare call it an oracle. With the proper information, it can predict the future with astounding accuracy … though I seem to be detecting a certain amount of scepticism, Miss Petrescu.”

“Goodness, no,” said Andreea, with no effort at sounding convincing. “I’m just wondering what ‘the proper information’ consists of. Starcharts? Tea leaves? The entrails of birds?”

“No doubt you inherit your contempt for the occult arts from your mother, who was forced, as I recall, to earn a thoroughly cynical living by play-acting them for the benefit of gullible tourists and peasants. Oh yes, I knew her, child, and I knew that in spite of what she became in adulthood, she was a naturally gifted psychic sensitive, and I encouraged and guided her in that talent. Few mortals have very much skill in intuition these days. They are even less capable of reading patterns in the stars, or nature, or numbers than their ancestors were, yet that does not mean the patterns are not there. LOCI is fast, methodical, and infinitely patient, so we give it all the information we can: astrology, geomancy, numerology, among others. It compares all the readings, runs its own probability calculations, considers all the known facts and variables, and thus arrives at its predictions, and disturbing ones they are … though not without their silver lining. If you would, Colonel.”

“Soon after we got the machine up and running,” explained Dragomir, calmly, but with a sobering intensity, “we programmed it to predict the most probable outcome of the war: a pardonable curiosity on our part, but one that has forced us to accelerate our plans. LOCI predicts that the war will be over by 1946, but the final exchange of fire will be the worst in history, with nuclear fission weapons. Are you familiar- ?”

“Enough,” replied Andreea, anticipating his question gravely. “I’ve heard of Rutherford’s work, and what little I know about splitting the atom … I’m guessing that such weapons would be …”

“‘Apocalyptic’ is the word you are looking for, child,” interrupted Miss Bendice, earnestly endeavouring to restrain the smugness she could not help but feel while considering the flaws of humanity, though she knew it to be beneath her. “I have always known it was only a matter of time before the mortal race would perfect the art of destroying themselves. I have lived through so many of their senseless wars – the Roman conquests and defeats; the Crusades; the Ottoman invasions; the bloodthirsty bickering between the Catholics and Protestants; the Napoleonic Wars; the last, ill-named ‘War to End All Wars’ – and I have wondered again and again if I was at last witnessing their final war: the ‘Ragnarok’ to finish off their so-called ‘civilisation’ once and for all, leaving-”

“A clean slate for your ‘New Order’, perchance?” conjectured Andreea, with bitter, disgusted irony. “Gather all of the pitiful survivors under the sway of one jolly global ‘vampocracy’? How lovely for you.”

“It is not a situation of my choosing.”

“Like hell it’s not. You say you have all the information on the end of the war. You could warn people never to use these weapons. You could-”

“Send a nice letter to the Fuhrer, politely asking him to stop building machines of war because my machine predicts Ragnarok? I hear that he is superstitious, but I daresay that even he has his limits.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of warning the Allies-” began Andreea, in a rather more sheepish tone, and did not even manage to muster a resentful look as Miss Bendice again interrupted her:

“Warn them to cancel their own weapons programs, so that Germany will have sole access to fission weapons and thus defeat them totally? But seriously, child: do you imagine that either side will compromise their war efforts, whatever I tell them? Even if I could convince them, do you not think they would prefer a pyrrhic victory over defeat or surrender, even at the risk of bringing down their wretched excuse for a civilisation?” Andreea looked as if she badly wanted to frame a protest to this contemptuous reflection on humanity, but words failed her. Repressing a satisfied half-smile, Miss Bendice continued: “I cannot hold back the tide of war. My responsibility is to the world of the aftermath. If you object to that, I suggest you take the matter up with our friend the colonel, as he has rather assumed the role of our chief strategist.”

“For which I am well qualified, I hope you will agree,” said Dragomir, taking up the offered cue with a self-important air. “I must allow LOCI some of the credit, however, especially for its projections of the world a few years from now. By 1962, it calculates with 100% certainty that full-scale nuclear war will have broken out between the major world powers. There will, of course, be many survivors, but all the major capitals and centres of government will be destroyed. Instead of powerful nations, there will be a multitude of small, vulnerable communities, and no doubt a great deal of banditry, looting, and all manner of anarchy: in short, a new Dark Age. It was during the last Dark Age, under similar circumstances, that our vampire friends enjoyed their last taste of power and acceptance. After the Roman Empire fell, communities throughout Europe were left without the law and protection their troops had provided, at the mercy of raiders, outlaws, wolves … even some vampires, of the sort who did not recognise the authority of our good director. Those who did, however, undertook to protect such communities as would offer them tributes of blood, animal and human, in exchange. For that, they would use their powers to keep the wild animals under control, and to drive away or destroy robbers and invaders.”

“A sort of vampiric feudal system?” quipped Andreea, with a hint of curiosity and rather a lot of sarcasm. “I’m sure that must have been delightful.”

“Better than anarchy,” replied Miss Bendice, sternly, “ and that system might have lasted to this day, if-”

“If you’d resisted the urge to milk your status as pagan ‘gods’?” interrupted Dragomir, exasperatingly.

“I have never ‘milked’ that,” as if you would be so conscientious about that, given the chance, she thought. “Superstitious people may have occasionally made that error – understandably, given my powers - but I have never sought to confirm-”

“Nor to deny.”

“I have never encouraged that rumour. Some of my followers, I admit, have been less principled about ‘milking’ their powers for such meaningless, self-flattering delusions of godhood.”

“Except that the Pope and all those missionaries he sent to convert Europe did not consider it ‘meaningless’ so much as ‘blasphemous’, didn’t they? And for all their block-headed Bible-bashing stupidity, they had a genuine, white-hot faith that gave their brains the power to repel, weaken, and overcome your ‘children’. And they passed on that power. It touched their converts, the churches they built, the icons they painted, and the crosses they carved, and caused them to generate the same zero-point energy fields: undetectable to modern science, potentially lethal to so-called ‘immortals’. The more churches, cathedrals, monasteries … even simple marketplace crosses that were built; the more Bibles that were printed; and the more people who contributed even weakly and doubtfully to this collective pool of faith, the more unbearable it became for vampires to inhabit civilised areas.”

“And my people were driven into hiding or brutally slaughtered, thank you for reminding me. That faith has declined somewhat these days, but its symbols and traditions still contaminate modern civilisation like toxic residues. After the final war, however, the religious infrastructure of all societies will lie in ruins. There will be nothing to prevent us moving out of the shadows and taking control.”

“Maybe,” said Andreea, unenthusiastically, “until the survivors get around to setting up a new pope, at any rate.”

“A contingency we have covered, Miss Petrescu,” declared Dragomir. “The vampire ‘gods’ of antiquity failed to keep their power because they relied entirely upon their occult abilities, and were an easy target when humanity learned the methods of countering their energy. But we are accumulating scientific knowledge and resources, and recruiting leading scientists to our cause. LOCI itself is unique, and will in time become the basis for a whole new technology. With such power in both the scientific and spiritual worlds, we shall be unassailable.”

“‘We’?” repeated Andreea, scornfully. “So where are you hiding your fangs, Colonel?” Miss Bendice sensed his frustration at having said rather more than he had intended, and though she quite enjoyed feeling his dismay and desperation to say something that might undo the damage, it was in neither or their interests for the Roma girl to be suspicious of his true intentions.

“It is expedient for now that he does not become one of my disciples,” said Miss Bendice, and gratifying, truth be told, though we may have to endure it sooner or later, if only to fulfil all honour and keep the wretched upstart from causing harm. “Dragomir has contacts and resources that are necessary to the success of our project. In time we will be self-sufficient here, but presently he is too valuable a link to the outside world to wilfully sever. There are also the invaders to consider … and I don’t refer to the SS and suchlike mortal filth, but the invaders from over the Bridge. Perhaps I had better leave that for him to explain,” she added, with a curt gesture towards Dragomir. “We each have our own theories on the subject, but I feel that his might appeal more to your literal mind.”

“Keen to oblige, as ever,” sneered Dragomir, before turning to Andreea and moderating his tone. “You may recall the sealed chamber in the underground temple. It adjoins a most remarkable natural formation: a cavity, created by ancient volcanic activity, sealed all around. Our seismic tests reveal it to be almost completely airless: a natural vacuum, and with high levels of magnetism and radiation in the surrounding rocks. The effects of all that high energy activity within the vacuum is to create a zone of unique space-time instability: an Einstein-Rosen Bridge, in academic parlance. Left to its own devices, it do doesn’t a great deal, though I daresay that ancient hunter-gatherers who camped out in these mountains may have experienced strange visions and even precognitive dreams, leading to the area being declared holy ground. That’s why Zalmoxis founded a temple here, and why my eccentric ancestor built this castle, and the more faith that such men have invested in this place, the more energy has been absorbed by the ERB, and the wider that little ‘chink’ in reality has grown. Right now, it would be very dangerous to enter the sealed chamber for any length of time: the emissions from the ERB would have disagreeable effects even on strong minds. Even at a distance, they play merry hell with our electronic systems, and have other nasty side-effects, such as that little incident in the stationery room you were unfortunate enough to witness. Such events are becoming all too common.”

“She called it an ‘invasion’, though,” pointed out Andreea. “So what are those things that come over your ‘bridge’? Are they alive?”

“Sentient, certainly, but probably not biological life that you could classify or dissect … though who can say? Matter cannot pass through the ERB, and only certain types of energy. We’ve tried beaming radio signals through, but without eliciting any response. They occasionally communicate with us, but they seem unwilling or unable to manifest as actual physical forms in this universe. However, they are known to possess and control foolish or unlucky people who spend too long in close proximity to the ERB, hence the demise of my ancestor. He dedicated his life to rediscovering the secret of immortality known to Zalmoxis and the Pythagoreans. When he thought he knew it, he performed what he thought were the proper rituals, chose what he supposed to be the correct planetary alignment, went into the sealed chamber, and went stark staring mad within seconds. He went on a babbling, homicidal rampage; killed several of his own followers; and was promptly lynched by a mob of his own God-fearing peasants. Not an outcome devoid of poetic justice, as he most certainly believed that our ‘invaders’ were Satan and his minions.”

“Aren’t they?” asked the lieutenant, in a voice almost as broken and haunted as the decaying castle itself. “Pardon me, Sir … Ma’am … but some of the things I’ve seen in this place-”

“Are far beyond your understanding, lad, so have the decency to accept the fact of your ignorance without dragging superstition in.”

“Still, to possess people and impersonate the dead … Oh, don’t get me wrong,” added Andreea, at Dragomir’s almost appalled look. “I leave all that hysteria about vengeful ghosts and evil spirits to the elders. But your ‘invaders’ certainly seem just as malevolent. What is it they want?”

“You think they confide in us?” asked Miss Bendice, ironically. “Surely it suffices to know, from their ruthless methods, that their aims must be evil. They are also disruptive to our project. We can temporarily counter their influence with talismans, holy books, and such sources of negative energy, but only Dragomir and I can use them effectively. None of my children can wield such devices without experiencing terrible pain and sickness. That is why I asked him to recruit a mortal assistant. I asked only for the one, but two assistants are not unacceptable, by any means. The incursions are a serious problem, but I have many duties and responsibilities, and cannot be available to deal with each new incident, and nor can Dragomir.”

“I get the gist, Ma’am, but please don’t feel you can’t call a slave a slave for my sake. I suppose this does at least mean you won’t be letting your ‘children’ go wild on our necks, so thank God for small mercies.”

“That reminds me,” said Dragomir, with an air of innocent recollection, which Miss Bendice had no difficulty in recognising as a vain effort to break the resurgent tension. “One of the lower-dwellers did actually have a very brief go at Miss Petrescu. She was bitten, but if she had been infected-”

“As you so delicately phrase it, I would know the signs,” interrupted Miss Bendice, irritably. “I would, however, like to know which of the lower-dwellers saw fir to disobey my orders. I gave them free rein to attack the foreign invaders only. My instructions regarding the Roma were no less explicit.”

“She didn’t stop to give her particulars, but I think it was that Down Syndrome girl.”

“Or Madalina, to allow her her own name,” she replied, icily. “I shall, in that case, forego punishment, since her mother was shot through the heart by one of those barbarians only last night. Nothing personal, Lieutenant,” she added, catching the intensified look of surprise on Johann’s face. “And what, pray, is on your mind” she asked, with a weary stab at sympathy, as the look remained.

“Just wondering … err … Down Syndrome?” asked Johann.

“A genetic condition, with impaired mental ability, often accompanied-”

“I know what it is, Ma’am. I just wondered, how does a vam … an immortal come to have it?”

“Obviously, she doesn’t have it now. You are quite correct: our ‘infection’, as some would call it, cures all such conditions. Your friend the colonel has indeed been most eager to explore the potential of that faculty.”

“Well I’ll thank you not to call him my friend,” said Andreea, with great distaste, “if he’s been experimenting on mentally ill people as well as Nazi stormtroopers.”

“Think what you like, but I had consent,” replied Dragomir, stiffly. “The girl’s mother came along with her, and also chose to join us. Until last night, had you see them together, you might have mistook them for sisters, though one was sixteen and the other was forty-five. As for the girl’s disability, it was entirely cured, though I will say that her subsequent mental development was nothing to write home about.”

“Do not deride her,” ordered Miss Bendice, with feeling. “She has shown herself to be far more adept in her powers than any of those supposed genius scientists whom you have been press-ganging.”

“That’s as well: if they could vaporise, shapeshift, or hypnotise half as well as you, I doubt we’d find it too easy a job to keep them in line. Thankfully, none of them has the slightest talent in these supposedly instinctive abilities. Mind you, they do say that babies know how to swim at birth, only to forget and have to re-learn the skill. Madalina may have a fully-functioning brain now, but her mind is still naïve, simple, and highly swayed by instinct. You, Miss Petrescu, would make a very weak vampire indeed, as would I. We have no natural receptivity to new instincts, whereas the former mentally retarded, microcephalics, senile dementia cases-”

“You seem to have hijacked an entire asylum,” interrupted Andreea, in a tone that challenged him to make a very good account of behaviour that, at face value, smacked of unprecedented levels of moral and scientific degradation.

“Not quite: just a couple of buses on their way to a so-called asylum in Austria,” he replied, gravely. “A contact of mine in the Reich Physicians’ Chamber informed us that the SS had starting exterminating mental patients at Hartheim, while pretending that they were merely relocating them to better facilities. Just one more reason to be grateful that I have a talent for cultivating friendships in high … Something else the matter, Lieutenant?”

Miss Bendice could not help but think that a very stupid question, given the sickly look of abject terror on Johann’s face. To be fair, though, the colonel did not share her intuitive powers, and had not shared the stream of images that had flashed through the young man’s mind at the mention of Hartheim: an elegantly-dressed girl in her early teens, with a strangely immobile, asymmetrical expression, being waited on by maids and servants … An ambulance pulling up at the gates of a country manor house … Four men emerging, two wearing white coats with red cross insignia, two wearing SS uniforms … A middle-aged husband and wife, both elegant but very distressed-looking, arguing with the men, the two doctors waving official documents in their faces while the officers, grim and silent, stood ready to intervene … The officers, their patience exhausted, holding back the couple, while the doctors entered the house, forced their way past the servants, and entered the room of the disabled girl … Her face, though strange in its manner of expression, clearly terrified as the doctors tried to calm her, telling her in a vague, clipped fashion that this was for her own good, and she was to receive special treatment in some new government facility … An even more chaotic scene, as the husband, wife, and servants all remonstrated angrily with the doctors, preventing them from removing the girl, until one of the SS men drew his Luger and fired a warning shot into the ornately stuccoed ceiling … Servants scattering, and the gentleman holding his wife back, as the doctors forcefully escorted the invalid girl out of the house and into the back of the ambulance, which drove away with curses and lamentations following in its wake.
These images passed through Johann’s mind in confusion, but Miss Bendice was nothing if not adept at unscrambling and decoding tumultuous memories, and reviewed the whole tragic scene in mere seconds of real time. That was time enough, however, for Johann’s expression to switch from distraught to angry and desperate.

“That’s a lie,” he declared, aggressively if not very assertively. “Allied propaganda. Everyone knows that.”

“Do they? Then I’m indebted to you for correcting my ignorance,” replied Dragomir, with heavy sarcasm. “Do pardon me for thinking that you were just some low-ranking pen-pusher. Obviously you are far better informed than any of my influential contacts, so maybe I’ll just put you in charge of my intelligence network.”

“Why should I believe a traitor, anyway?” protested Johann, more feebly but still provokingly. Before Dragomir was able to frame a suitably venomous reply, Miss Bendice cut in, in a strangely hollow tone that at once commanded all of their attention, though Johann’s most fixedly of all:

“That will be all, Lieutenant von Ritter. Report to Biomedical Research; level three. Have the duty physician see to that nose of yours before it sets in that less-than-flattering configuration. Dismissed.”

With a brisk pace and glazed eyes, Johann left the room, followed by the astonished eyes of Andreea. When he was out of sight, she addressed Miss Bendice with a mix of awe, dread, and disapproval:

“If you can do that, I can’t imagine why you need all this security.”

“Because I can’t be everywhere all the time, and influencing one traumatised young man is no very great feat of mesmerism. Would that every mortal was as malleable … If Paul of Tarsus had been as receptive to my wiles, how differently your history might have turned out.”

“‘Now abideth faith, hope, and vampirism, and the greatest of these is vampirism’ … or words to that effect,” parodied Dragomir, his tone still dripping scorn. “But I don’t know what Johann’s got to be traumatised about, I’m sure. Serves me right, no doubt, to have expected better from a spoiled little mummy’s boy, born with a silver spoon in his mouth.”

“You, of course, are ideally placed to be lecturing the rest of us about privilege,” sneered Miss Bendice. “I take it, then, you were not aware that von Ritter had a younger sister who was sent for ‘special treatment’ under this hell-spawned policy? Perhaps you overrate the omniscience of your contacts.”

“Spies and whistle blowers are only human beings too, but if it’s as you say, then we may count it to our advantage. The boy can expend his adolescent rage, then the truth will sink in, and then he can hardly fail to be on our side.”

“You make an art of cynicism … but I take your point. Miss Petrescu, I think, will require a little more time to reflect,” though not much, she thought, with silent satisfaction, sensing that Andreea had, in spite of ardent mental resistance, accepted that there were more evil places to be, in the current political climate, than vampire-infested castles. However, it would not do to take her allegiance for granted. “Consider well the advantages of willing cooperation. Security dictates that I cannot let you go, but I would much sooner hold you here by preference than coercion. You could be at the forefront of many new scientific discoveries. Secrets the philosophers and alchemists of old could only dream of will be yours to analyse and lay bare. New fields … perhaps even new universes will in time be open to you. If you are amenable, then I can offer you-”

At which moment the desk intercom buzzed obnoxiously, and Miss Bendice stabbed impatiently at the receive button. As the report issued from the grille, crackling yet depressingly coherent, she had cause to regret her impulsiveness:

“Much as I hate to interrupt,” said the voice of Commander Navarro, sardonically, “you might want to know that your new ‘early warning system’ has let you down. One of the perimeter posts radioed in, saying that the SS have already got within the encampment itself and are massacring your pet gitanos. This isn’t the best of times for me to raise a security team, but if you want-”

“Take immediate measures,” ordered Miss Bendice, with intense vexation, keeping her eyes averted from Andreea’s appalled expression and wishing her thoughts were as simple to block out. “Those ruins must be secured at all costs. Destroy them if you have to … Extend what protection you can to the surviving Roma,” she added, in the vain hope that it might go some way to placating her disgusted prisoner.

“As you wish, though I don’t suppose they’ll be overjoyed to see a team of vampires on top of the SS. Maybe if I issue full camo gear … I guess I should, anyway, as it’s still too light for us to use any of your fancy tricks for stealth, and-”

“Stealth be damned. If they should breach those catacombs-”

“I get the picture, but I’m taking what steps I can to avoid having your gitanos firing at us as well. Over and out.”

Before Miss Bendice had a fair chance to come to terms with her security commander’s insolence, it was compounded by an even more vitriolic verbal attack from Andreea:

“‘Early earning system’? ‘Pets’? I like to know where I really stand.”

“You have to realise-” began Miss Bendice, with no great hope she would be permitted to finish, and was not disappointed in the accuracy of her premonition:

“I’ll tell you what I’m starting to realise: I’m realising why my dad and the elders wouldn’t trust a gadje, living or dead, as far as they could spit. When you’re not just shooting us like dogs, you’re herding us like sheep over a minefield. But I’m no tsigan slave to be used and discarded at your illustrious whim, and if you think-”

“Oh, do be quiet,” ordered Miss Bendice, in the hollow tone she had employed when silencing Johann, before gesturing to a chair in the corner of the room, “and sit over there until I can decide what to do with you, as if I didn’t have trials enough,” she resentfully added, as Andreea assumed a glassy-eyed, somnambulistic look, and walked in obedient silence to the chair.

“Not the best-timed attack,” said Dragomir, grimly. “I wouldn’t have credited Captain Meinert with such tenacity. He must hate the Roma above and beyond his patriotic duty.”

“Assuming that is his only motive. If he has found out about our headquarters and informed his superiors-”

“Not very likely … though perhaps it would be as well to blow up all of the tunnel entrances after this fiasco. It may attract attention in the short term, but it’s a safer prospect than trying to police the damn things, never mind getting outsiders to do it for us. I’ll check the ordnance supplies, and make sure we have enough dynamite and composition B to make a proper job of it.”

“You do that,” she said, as he strode from the office, her bland dispassion masking a heightened sense of the suspicion that she habitually felt around her ally. Although she sensed no outright dishonesty in his closing remarks, it also seemed to her as if he was being selective with the truth, and that, with the barbarian horde practically hammering at our gates, simply will not do. She reached for the intercom button.

“Guardroom, please … If you’re still there, Commander, I must ask that you spare Dimitri from the counter-attack. I have another task requiring his urgent attention.”