Dracula Unbound

by Brian W Aldiss

  It looked like nowhere. No scene in the Antarctic could have been more drab. The desert here was not desert proper, the romantic desert of folds, patterns, and dunes, where sand builds itself into unending hieroglyphs. This was a flat and stony place, promising none of the interest of a cryptogram. The road itself was only a dust trail through the desolation. Nothing had changed for centuries.

  “We’ve come the wrong way,” said Bodenland.

  They could not turn back into the city. He kept the revolver at the man’s head as he tried to work out what to do. With set expression, the driver drove on.

  Bodenland peered ahead through the dusty windscreen, trying to see if something moved through the heat haze ahead. Sticking his head out of the window, he could determine a line drawn across the desert. It wobbled in the heat as if in boiling water. As they neared, it revealed itself to be a fence, stretching across miles of desert.

  It was a tall wire fence, and it bisected the landscape. He could make out no beginning or end to either side. Its one feature was a gate set in the middle of it, and to this gate the truck was heading.

  A guard post with a metal roof stood by the gate, resonant under the power of the sun.

  “Keep going,” Bodenland yelled, pounding with a fist on the dashboard. “Through the gate.”

  “No—no use, please …” The driver jammed on the brake. They ground to a halt in front of the gate, skidding in a shower of gravel to end broadside in front of the guard post. Before the cloud of dust had settled, four Arab guards dashed from the hut, carbines at the ready, to stand on either side of the truck.

  A loudspeaker burst into life.

  “The traitor must surrender. Descend from the cab, traitor.”

  The driver, whose face ran with sweat, rolled his eyes in terror.

  “Don’t shoot me, please. I have a family. The game’s up for you.”

  The four guards dragged Bodenland struggling from the cab. After all, his revolver was not loaded. He hated carrying a loaded gun.

  They frog-marched him into the post to stand before the guard commander.

  Inside the hut, a fan did little to disperse the heat. A rack of cots stood to one end, empty at present in the emergency. On the rear wall, behind the guard commander’s desk, hung a cage containing a small captive bird, a finch. The finch was yellow and red; it sat on its perch and sang its heart out, as if it had just discovered paradise.

  The commander was very pale, very young, and had grown a top-heavy black mustache to compensate for these defects.

  He stood up, puffing out his chest and pointing a finger at his prisoner. “You are a spy. You are arrested for stealing the F-bomb. I have the prime minister’s authority to execute you. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

  Bodenland outstared him. “I certainly have, Captain. You see your little imprisoned bird there? If it were free and had a nest full of chicks, don’t you reckon it would defend its nest if attacked? Even if the attacker was an eagle, the finch would do its best. You Libyans have this superweapon, so-called, yet you are going to detonate it in the desert! You’re mad. I’m on your side in this war against the Fleet Ones, and I say drop the rotten bomb on them. Don’t waste it, if it’s the last thing you do. Let me go, Captain. I’ll deliver it where it hurts. Don’t horse around. Just give me a compass and let me go free.”

  The young captain heard him out politely, nodding as the points were made.

  Then he said, “I’m afraid you do not share our philosophy. Allah must have his way and we must follow. All else is an offense against God.”

  “You think the Un-Dead give a crap about Allah?”

  But the captain had turned to his corporal. “Take this man out and shoot him.”

  Bodenland made a dive across the desk for the captain’s gun, but the officer stepped hastily back, and two men pinned Bodenland down on the desk.

  Wrenching his arms behind his back, they moved him toward the door, with Bodenland fighting every inch of the way. The bird fluttered in fright in its cage.

  Another guard came running in from outside, full of excitement.

  “Captain, something coming this way.”

  “Our relief …”

  “No, no, Captain, from the west. Come and see.”

  This event was evidently so rare that they all ran out into the desert and stared through the fence to the west.

  It had come over the horizon. It was blasting in their direction. Difficult to make out what it was; its outline was blurred.

  The captain tugged one end of his mustache and looked doubtfully at Bodenland.

  Bodenland knew beyond a doubt, and kept his own counsel. It was the time train. Good old Stoker was coming to the rescue, just when needed. The only question was, why and how was it coming from that direction and not from the direction of the city?

  The captain’s intuition told him danger was on its way.

  “All back inside,” he ordered. His manner was calm and commanding; Bodenland admired it. “Be prepared to shoot when I give the order.”

  Once they were inside the hot little refuge, the door was secured and the men took up positions at the window. The captain himself guarded Bodenland, covering him with a revolver.

  “Give yourself up,” Bodenland advised. “It’s a buddy of mine.”

  The outlines of the time train became clearer as it slowed. Losing velocity, it contracted, radiating energy as it did so, and came to a halt halfway through the wire barrier. Dust settled.

  No one descended.

  “I’m here, Bram,” Bodenland shouted.

  In response, heavy guns swiveled from the window slits of the train. Their snouts poked toward the guard post.

  A metallic amplified voice roared out over the wasteland, demanding the surrender of Bodenland.

  He tried to make sense of it. His mind jumped to an obvious conclusion, that Stoker and Spinks had been captured and lost control of the train.

  The metallic voice shouted its demands again.

  The captain shouted back, “I will surrender Bodenland if you guarantee that no harm will come to the rest of us!”

  A pause. Outside, heavily shrouded figures climbed from the train and proceeded to unload the F-bomb from the truck.

  “The Un-Dead,” moaned one of the guards. He threw down his carbine and cowered by the desk.

  “We demand only Bodenland. The rest of you are safe,” came the voice.

  “It’s a trick, Captain,” Bodenland said. “Those are the Un-Dead, the Fleet Ones. Give me a gun and come out with me. We’ll do what damage we can. Take them by surprise.”

  The captain gave him a wry smile. “I must have regard for the safety of my men. I’m sorry. Out you go, and good luck.”

  “Okay.” With heavy heart, he stepped into the sunlight. Four shrouded figures were stowing the F-bomb in its red and green case onto the train. The train loomed over the scene, its guns giving it a kind of pseudolife as they swiveled to cover him. He walked forward slowly, seeking any advantage, but saw none.

  A black-clad figure leaned from the first door of the train and beckoned. Bodenland did not hasten his pace. He climbed aboard, to be greeted by heavy-visored men with guns.

  “Pity you gooks can’t bear the daylight. It’s really nice out there.”

  They made no response, bundling him into the first compartment. The F-bomb was already there, lying on the seat.

  He could see the guard post, with the pale face of the guard captain watching through the glass. Next second, the train’s guns sounded.

  The post was obliterated. The guns pounded until only a blackened crater was left. The noise died away, the smoke rolled across the Libyan desert.

  “Sorry about the little bird,” Bodenland said.

  A tall cadaverous Un-Dead guard came into the compartment and confronted him.

  “You are to meet Count Dracula immediately.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  “Follow me. Bring the bomb. It will not d
etonate.”

  As they went into the corridor, the driver of the train was going forward to his cab. Bodenland called to him, “You!” Wasn’t it the man he had captured and imprisoned in Stoker’s toolshed, five centuries earlier? Perhaps he was mistaken.

  Wait! His mind performed a somersault. The paradoxes of time confronted him. Perhaps his capture and imprisonment of the driver were still to come. In which case, there was certainly hope for him.

  The driver gave him a glance, showed no sign of recognition, and disappeared into the shady recesses of the cab. Almost at once, the train started to move.

  The corridor began to stretch. Everything became flexible and insecure. It was like being inside a tormented snake. As they progressed toward the rear of the train, it got further and further away, under the stress of relativistic velocities.

  He was taken to a large compartment hung with black, and told to await the Count. A guard stood over him. The compartment expanded a little, then settled into stability as the train’s speed steadied.

  After a while, shadow and smoke that did not smell like smoke filled the place, and Count Dracula appeared, horned and gigantic, more devil than man. His face was like a painted skull. Bodenland stood up defiantly to face him. It was like facing a ghoul in the worst childhood dream, unreal, but more terrifying than any known reality.

  Such was the impact of this creature that Bodenland found it hard to make his intellect function, especially in the first moments of confrontation. He did his best to register the features of this apparition. Later, he was to find it difficult to remember details, as if, like Bella, the unholy Count had the ability, in common with a disease of the brain, to erase engrams and deface memory.

  Stoker had spoken of likening Dracula to Henry Irving. That, however, was in fiction. In reality, little resemblance existed between monster and actor. True, Dracula had a large head with streaks of white in his dark hair. The dark hair was swept back and cut long, much as Irving’s had been. And there was a broad brow. But Dracula’s brow was rocky and brutal, a mere base from which two short horns curled. The horns were crusted like a goat’s.

  Nor was the head noble. It was brachycephalic, with no curve at its rear, so that its peak fell straight down to the neck. Lower and upper jaws were remarkably pointed; even in repose, Dracula’s strong sharp teeth remained on the verge of showing. Only the lips held color. Of a mauvish red, they expressed at once luxuria and cruelty, round which the teeth were glimpsed like fingers clutching a curtain. When the lips curled back in speech, both cheeks wrinkled up to resemble twin perineums.

  To conceive of this creature as ever having been human was difficult and—when its powers were at their height—near impossible.

  When Dracula spoke, it was in the hoarse voice Bodenland remembered well, the voice Bella had used, a shared voice, equipment with which to talk to living human beings. As if that name had been conjured up in the roily air between them, “Bella” was the first word on Dracula’s lips.

  “Bella was sent to you to lure you to the Silent Empire. As we planned, you have delivered the F-bomb to me. We have finished with you now, Joe Bodenland, but we intend you no harm. Did we not send you that beautiful vision in which your young daughter-in-law came to your bedside? You will be granted that vision again if you behave.”

  “I can live without it.” He found it difficult to speak. Although the atmosphere vibrated with fear, Bodenland controlled his breathing and did not allow himself to be overcome. But this monstrous being was like death itself. To stay long in its presence would be annihilating. But there was a question he had to ask.

  “Supposing you have trapped me, tell me this. You are the Father of Lies and Darkness, the antithesis of science—how is it you have invented this time train?”

  “Your scientific view has blinkered you, Joe Bodenland. You should open your mind to a darkness wider than your petty light. This is a turning point in history, when the human race become mice again, not pretentious creatures who dream of visiting other planets. In consequence, we have been observing this period for a long while, anticipating your arrival in our train. As to that train … a colossal amount of energy is required to alter the flow of time, and dam that great river. To power the train, the sun has had to grow dark. That suits us, as it suits us to borrow science when science can work against religions and God …”

  His thick voice choked on the last word. A scent of decay filled Bodenland’s nostrils. He dreaded to think that the train might even now be heading for that dark future, where the Fleet Ones ruled supreme, and nothing but death lived.

  “You did not answer my questions about the train.”

  The reply rolled back like thunder. “Joe Bodenland, you do not require an answer. This train is the instrument by which the Fleet Ones will prevail—as they would have done long since, had we not been so few—we were always so few, a handful a century—and had not Christianity once been so strong. With the time train, we are enabled to congregate across the ages and become strong.”

  “So you invented it, despite your lack of science?”

  “Cease this catechism.” The mighty figure gave a roar of laughter. “We did not invent such a complex instrument. How could we? Man, you have a brain, yet you cannot feel with it how short life is, and how long death. Come, while we have a moment more of travel, I will show you the difference between the living and the Un-Dead.”

  This horrifying conversation seemed to turn and tunnel in Bodenland’s mind, as if it were a living worm. Phrases kept spluttering across his synapses like the progeny of worms, robbing him of thought. Darkness wider than your petty light. We have finished with you now. How long death, how short life.

  Without will, he followed the august figure into the corridor of the speeding train. All was dim and misty, well suited to the photophobic Un-Dead. Satanic guards who crowded in the corridor lifted their visors, to show their death-white faces, their razor-sharp jaws, in relaxation.

  He strove to clear his mind. Memory came of Stoker’s perception of the relationship between vampirism and the last stages of venereal disease. The human race become mice again. The sun has had to grow dark. Complex instrument. He could not keep the noises out. Was this not dementia? To be long in the company of this Darkness would be to fall into insanity.

  Trying to induce logic back to his brain, he made to speak. All that emerged was the question he had previously asked.

  “Train … How is it? How did you invent the train?”

  The thing proceeding before him did not even turn its head. The answer came in its habitual tone of scorn.

  “In your near future, where you came from, your government in Washington will forbid your toxic-waste-disposal scheme as being too dangerous. Your inertial invention will lapse and be forgotten in the files, Joe Bodenland. Forgotten until we revive it.

  “We simply apply the principle, and for that we employ human slave scientists, millions of years ahead of now. It’s your principle that governs the existence of this train. That is why we owe you some forbearance. You yourself are the original inventor of time travel. You yourself are the instigator of the triumph of the Un-Dead, Joe Bodenland—over Libya, and over the rest of the living world …”

  He was not conscious. Paradoxically, it was the worm-like poison of Lord Dracula’s previous speech which now protected him from the shock of the latest revelation. Yet he sank down into a surf of unknowing, threw up his hands, drowned.

  That amazing novel of Bram Stoker’s, which the modest author still regarded as unpublished, unprinted, unbound … It had alerted people to the dangers of vampirism. At the same time, it contained Stoker’s encoded message of personal sorrow, as he fell sick of the disease that had ravaged mankind for centuries. As well as the great vampire novel, Stoker had created the great nineteenth-century syphilis novel.

  In so doing, he had intuitively performed a true diagnosis; the two poisons to the blood were indeed linked.

  What Stoker could not have know
n was the extraordinarily long lineage of the original vampiric strain, born of a cold-blooded winged predator in the distant greens of the Mesozoic. What nobody could have foreseen was the devious way in which those parasites had managed to infiltrate themselves into a future as distant as their origins. The way by which they had gone was the tunnel bored through the time quanta opened up by Bodenland’s scientific ingenuity.

  Joe’s responsibility was too heavy to bear. It dragged him down like a great weight lashed to a sailor struggling in an ocean beyond the reach of aid.

  Yet he was conscious.

  In a manner of speaking.

  A foul creature was sponging his face. The cold water steamed. A mist rose before him. So feelingless was he, he might have been embedded in glass.

  The place to which he had been brought was mysteriously familiar. It was a torture cell. Gradually his senses returned.

  The air was almost dark. It pressed against his face like an old cushion. Dracula was there, blacker than the dark.

  Bodenland fought to regain control over himself.

  Why did he recognize the iron torture instruments stowed behind glass doors? And worse …

  For most of the compartment was occupied by a heavy wooden table. The scars and cuts on it rendered it as wicked as a butcher’s block.

  On the table, pressed against its surface by iron bars, lay a naked man. His body color was that of a drowned fish, its swollen grays and blues almost luminescent in the dull illumination. He was not drowned. His fanged teeth still worked, as they sought to bite through a metal rod which gagged his mouth.

  Staring down at this pitiable sight, Bodenland’s intellect sharpened. This was the compartment by which he and Bernard Clift had first entered the time train. He had seen this poor creature before, tortured and unable to escape his torturers through death.

  The imprisoned vampire gave a stifled cry, rolling his eyes to his lord and master, presumably begging for mercy. Dracula paid no attention, beyond lifting a hand to summon an assistant to the table.

  “This loathsome thing always begs for mercy,” said Dracula in his cold brutish voice. A muscle worked in his ashen cheek. “But mercy is not an available alternative.”