The Nosferatu Chronicles: Origins

by Susan Hamilton

  He mounted his horse and took one last look at the smithy as he rode away.

  Standing six and a half feet tall, Jasper’s strength was equally matched by his intricate engraving skills and an uncanny ability for precise geometric measurement by sight alone. Although he had been born into a family of bakers in the Welsh village of Cribyn, Jasper’s father had accepted that his oversized son wanted nothing to do with kneading dough. Recognizing the boy’s love for shaping metal, he had obtained an apprenticeship for him with Owen, the village blacksmith. The surly old man lived alone at the smithy, having lost his wife and two daughters to the sweating sickness many years ago. Still embittered by his loss, Owen had initially refused to see Jasper, but when shown the large serving spoon engraved with interwoven knots that the boy had produced without any training, he relented.

  “Look you, boyo,” he had said harshly their first day together. “Do you see any fancy spoons? To be a blacksmith in Cribyn, you must know how to shoe horses and repair ploughs, hacksaws, and axes. If you think the ovens of your father’s bakery were hot, you’re not going to find the weather here to your liking.”

  Even though only twelve at the time, Jasper’s strength was superior to Owen’s, and the boy completed all of his tasks skillfully and without complaint. The old man grudgingly admitted to himself that he should have taken on an apprentice long ago, and as time passed, Owen looked fondly upon Jasper as the son he never had.

  From their cottage next to the smithy, they could see the twin summits of Pen y Fan, known as “Arthur’s Seat.” Jasper would listen in wonderment as Owen recited the ancient Welsh poem “Y Gododdin” that told the story of three hundred chosen warriors who attacked the Gododdin invaders at Catraeth. After several days of fighting against impossible odds, nearly all were killed.

  Men went to Catraeth with a war-cry. Speedy steeds and dark armor and shields. Spear-shafts held high and spear-points sharp-edged and glittering coats-of-mail and swords. He led the way, he thrust through armies. Five companies fell before his blades. Rhufawn gave gold to the altar, and a rich reward to the minstrel.

  Jasper’s favorite warrior was Gwawrddur, who was singled out in the poem for his bravery.

  He fed black ravens on the rampart of a fortress, though he was no Arthur. Among the powerful ones in battle, in the front rank, Gwawrddur was a palisade.

  On a sun-swept day in autumn they had ventured to the summits of Pen y Fan, where Jasper confided to Owen that he wanted to follow in the footsteps of the legendary King Arthur, whose spirit must surely rest in this sacred place.

  “To do that, you must have the proper equipment, boyo,” Owen had said. “Sword, spear, battle axe, push dagger, shield, helmet, and chainmail.”

  “You can show me how these are made?” Jasper asked anxiously.

  Owen smiled wryly, but said nothing more. When they arrived back home, he told Jasper to drag out a heavy trunk from underneath one of the workbenches. Years of dust had settled on the top, and it creaked as Owen slowly opened it.

  “Chainmail!” Jasper exclaimed.

  Lifting it out of the trunk, Owen held it up against Jasper. “I wore that when I was a decade older than you are now, and look how it already fits. It will need to be altered as you grow. I’ll show you how to undo the seam and make new rows.”

  “You were a warrior! Was it like the Y Gododdin?”

  “No, boyo,” Owen answered. “The dispute was not with an invader but rather a religious matter concerning which prayers and rites of certain factions would have precedence. I and a good many others living in Brecon answered the pope’s call to settle things. We fought bravely, but when it was over, concessions were made by each side: concessions that could have easily been made before so much blood was spilled.”

  “But you came home victorious!” Jasper protested.

  Owen’s smile vanished. “Not victorious. While my friends and I were away, Brecon was ravaged by the sweating sickness, claiming the lives of my dear wife and daughters. Somewhere they lie together along with countless others in a mass grave. If you go in search of adventure, do so before you find love.”

  Eleven years after Jasper began his apprenticeship, Owen died peacefully in his sleep. Since it was impossible to reunite him with the remnants of his family, Jasper had tenderly wrapped the body in linen cloth and set out with it to Arthur’s Seat. In the distance he had seen a group of farmers approaching with a cart. Word of Owen’s death had reached them and they sought to honor him by giving him a respectful sendoff.

  He had tried to continue Owen’s work, but with the old man no longer around for company, his heart was not in it. Taking on two farmer’s sons as apprentices, he had trained them to a level of competency that would have met Owen’s standards. Coming to an arrangement with their father, he transferred ownership of the smithy to them after receiving payment.

  “Yah!” he yelled, leaning forward into the saddle. As the galloping horse took him away from his old life, he imagined what awaited him: fame, fortune, and maybe the love of a damsel in distress he would rescue.

  When he reached Arthur’s Seat, he stopped to say a private, heartfelt goodbye to his mentor and friend.

  DECISION

  Cloaked Lifeboat, Outskirts of Bazna

  “Personal UV shields in place now,” ordered Kevak. “Are you ready, Urit?”

  Urit rolled his eyes and placed his hand in the shielded tube. “How many more tests, Navigator?”

  “Until I get two identical results,” answered Kevak. “Every time we have done this, your resistance has increased. We need to determine the limits. Tell us when—”

  “I’ll tell you when I can’t take any more,” said Urit.

  The tube was flooded with a low dose of ultraviolet light. Urit remained passive as Kevak slowly increased the dosage. After a few minutes, Urit’s calm facial expression changed into a grimace.

  “What’s your pain level?” asked Kevak.

  “Eight,” he gasped as his breathing became heavy. “Nine…ten! Stop!”

  Kevak switched off the light. A lab technician put a small vial of the Primitive substance into the sliding tray in front of Urit’s enclosure and pushed it through to his side. Urit picked it up and slowly drank the contents.

  “Any cravings or psychotic thoughts?” asked Kevak.

  “I’ve never felt better,” said Urit. “You seem to be the ones in need of medical assistance. I’ve seen cadavers that looked better fed.”

  Kevak did not react to Urit’s taunts.

  He’s right. We are slowly starving to death while he is thriving. But what is he becoming…

  “We need another sample from your arm,” said Kevak.

  “Of course, Navigator. I have plenty,” he said.

  Kevak watched as the needle was put into Urit’s vein and a pink, gelatinous material was extracted.

  No longer viscous, but not red liquid…yet.

  The lab technician returned with a new tray of three flasks and set it down on a table just outside Urit’s enclosure.

  “Are you able to determine by smell if any of these contain the substance from the Primitive?” asked Kevak.

  Urit sniffed, then recoiled. “They are all Four-legs. The first is from the small creature with white, curly fibers. The second is a beast of burden the Primitives use as a means of transportation, and the third is an aggressive predator. I’ve heard its howls in the distance.”

  “Impressive,” said Kevak. “It seemed as if the smell was repugnant to you.”

  “It is poison, as you well know,” retorted Urit. “Would you have stopped me if I had attempted to ingest it?”

  Kevak ignored Urit’s question. Slides mixed with Four-legs and Vambir cells had all resulted in the destruction of the Vambir components. Kevak had noted with interest that the red substance in the Four-legs cells contained a nucleus, whereas Primitive and Vambir cells did not. The DNA tests had revealed what Kevak had suspected since first seeing the Primitives. They were linked, n
ot in an ancestral sense, but they were definitely interstellar cousins. This discovery raised the possibility of a race of common ancestors somewhere in the universe, but seeking answers to that would remain secondary until their nutritional situation was resolved.

  Kevak’s palmcom buzzed. It was Chaluxi, requesting his presence in the agricultural lab. Happy for an excuse to get away from Urit, Kevak entered the hatch, removed his hazmat suit, and waited for decontamination clearance. As he exited the outer hatch, he studied the faces of the technicians inside the lab.

  They grow weaker each day and watch with envy as Urit gets stronger.

  Walking to Chaluxi’s lab, he was troubled by the thought of how starvation was making the Vambir resent him for lobbying against the ingestion of the Primitive substance.

  “Hello, Helmsman,” he said upon seeing Chaluxi. “How goes the garden?”

  “Something incredible has happened, Navigator,” said Chaluxi. “Look!”

  Kevak saw ten rows of potted soil. Five of the rows had produced hemo-sprouts.

  “They came out today, weeks ahead of schedule,” said Chaluxi. “The early sprouts grew in the soil of this planet.”

  “That’s fantastic news!” said Kevak. “If the sprouts came early, then so will the harvest. How soon?”

  “Six weeks at the most.”

  “Then we could do it,” said Kevak. “Reduced to half rations, we could survive long enough without ingesting the Primitive substance.”

  Chaluxi shook his head. “Look around you, Navigator. No one will accept further deprivation.”

  “They must!” exclaimed Kevak. “The Primitive substance is changing Urit into a hybrid.”

  “He’s changing into the picture of health,” countered Chaluxi. “That’s all anyone sees. They’re willing to accept whatever they might become if it puts an end to their hunger. I also hear that Urit is developing a resistance to daylight, which would be an advantage to our species.”

  “Daylight is still fatal to Urit. It would merely take longer to vaporize him,” answered Kevak.

  “That could change as he becomes more like the Primitives,” Chaluxi conjectured.

  “Possibly,” conceded Kevak, “but the risks far outweigh any UV resistance advantage. Urit has been confined to the lab and limited to small doses of the Primitive substance. If he were at liberty and began ingesting the same quantities as he did at first, it could bring about psychotic reversion. We’re playing with fire, Helmsman, when we should be concentrating solely on crop production.”

  “Agreed,” said Chaluxi, “but it’s not our decision to make.”

  “Then we’ll have to persuade Mazja,” he said.

  “A tall order, old friend,” said Chaluxi with a sigh.

  Upon returning to the lab, Kevak was alarmed to see that Urit was gone.

  “The Commander ordered his release,” said one of the technicians, “and has finally called a community meeting to discuss how the Primitive hemo-nectar will be distributed.”

  *******

  “Helmsman Chaluxi and Navigator Kevak have asked permission to speak,” said Mazja to the Vambir assembled in the main hall. “You may go first, Helmsman.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” began Chaluxi. “There has been an important development in the agricultural lab. The soil of this planet has accelerated the growth of the hemo-seeds. The first sprouts came out this morning, weeks ahead of schedule. If the acceleration continues at the present pace, we will be able to harvest the first crop in six weeks.”

  “How long will our rations last?” asked Mazja.

  “Four weeks,” answered Chaluxi, “but if we cut back by forty percent, we could avoid ingesting the Primitive substance altogether.”

  “Forty percent!” cried one of the Vambir. “We’re starving while there is a plentiful supply of Primitive hemo-nectar on this planet. Look at Urit! He grows stronger as we waste away!”

  Mazja motioned for silence. “Let the Helmsman finish.”

  “We could put a third of the population into stasis, and the rest of us could carry on with rations unchanged,” he suggested.

  “We’ve gone over that before,” said Mazja. “Everyone is crucial to the work at hand. Putting a third of us into stasis would mean the others would be overtaxed to the point of exhaustion.”

  “Not once the hemo-sprouts are transplanted outside, Commander,” said Chaluxi. “At that point, the agricultural duties would consist of merely monitoring the plants, something that drones could easily do.”

  “Navigator, has your extensive testing revealed any reason why we couldn’t supplement our rations with the Primitive hemo-nectar?” asked Mazja.

  Kevak walked to the podium and played the footage of Urit the day he went berserk in the lab.

  “This is hemostim madness,” he said to those assembled. “You all recognize it. Urit is only symptom-free now because his intake of the Primitive substance has been restricted under constant supervision. If it is allowed to be distributed to the general population, this could happen to all of us.”

  Kevak paused to let his words sink in. “It is true that we are all starving, but before Chaluxi’s news, we were starving with no end in sight. We now have hope. There is a specific timeline to when our suffering will be at an end. For the sake of our species, we must stay the course and not risk anything that could bring about our destruction. We’ve come too far and have already paid an enormous price: those left behind on Vambiri to die of radiation poisoning, our comrades who perished on departure, in transit, and upon arrival. My…beloved spouse and son were…lost. We have all have lost someone. Don’t let their deaths be in vain.”

  As the Vambir weighed Kevak’s arguments, he broached a new subject. “We also face a moral dilemma. Although no one has spoken of it, all of you have surely noted the similarity between Primitives and ourselves. DNA tests confirm that we are linked. We could be embarking on a course that would be considered genocide on Vambiri.”

  “Then you yourself are guilty,” accused Urit, “since the Primitive in the lab died as a result of your experiments.”

  Urit’s accusation rankled Kevak. After ordering a halt to the extraction of the substance from the Primitive, he had returned to the lab the next night and learned that the Primitive had died because Fryhi had been given permission by Mazja to extract more material to replace what the broken flasks had held.

  “It was my clumsiness that led to the death of the Primitive,” said Mazja to Urit.

  “Well, if it comes down to us or them,” said Urit, “then I’m not prepared to die of starvation in order to meet Kevak’s moral standards.”

  “We’re nowhere near having to make a choice between our survival and theirs,” said Kevak, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice.

  “There is also the possibility that once the hemo-sprouts are transplanted outside, this planet’s sun will further accelerate their growth,” added Chaluxi. “Six weeks could easily become four.”

  Mazja looked at the faces of the Vambir and sensed that Kevak and Chaluxi had won them over.

  “Hemo-rations are to remain at current levels, and the agricultural work will be our prime objective,” she ordered. “This decision is subject to change. If we find ourselves in a situation where death from malnutrition is imminent or the harvest time becomes longer than predicted, then we will begin distributing the Primitive substance to those who need it most.”

  “Could we not all go into stasis at that point?” asked Kevak.

  “You know the risks of entering stasis in a severely malnourished condition, Navigator,” said Mazja. “The body would not have enough strength to survive the shock of the revival sequence.”

  “Yes, Commander, I am aware of the risks,” said Kevak. “But it is a known risk.”

  “In this case, the known poses more danger than the unknown,” said Mazja.

  “What about semi-stasis, Commander?” asked Chaluxi. “Could we not try that before ingesting the Primitive substance?”


  Part of every Vambir’s evacuation training had consisted on how to enter the hypnotic state of semi-stasis. It was only meant to be used if they ever found themselves in a hostile environment without the stasis pods.

  “Stasis or semi-stasis, it makes no difference,” said Mazja. “A malnourished body cannot survive revival. You’ve got four weeks to provide us with hemoplants.”

  JOY

  Castle Dracula

  “Is it true?” asked Iroto. “Tell me again so that I may be sure my ears do not deceive me.”

  Soueti smiled broadly. “Yes, husband, it is true. We are to have a child.”

  “Glorious news!” he exclaimed. “Once we have returned to our homeland, I shall teach him to hunt as my father taught me.”

  Soueti laughed. “And if we are blessed with a daughter?”

  “Then she will outshine all others with the beauty inherited from her mother,” he replied.

  Picking her up, Iroto twirled her around in the privacy of their chamber.

  “Not so fast, husband!” protested Soueti as she laughed. “You are making me dizzy.”

  A look of horror spread across his face, and he quickly set her down. “Forgive me! In my rush to joy I did not think of your health.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Soueti said with a smile. “The child is quite safe.”

  A disturbing thought passed through Iroto’s mind. “I must inform Dracula immediately.”

  “What does Dracula have to do with such a personal matter?” asked Soueti.

  Iroto would not dare reveal to her what Teodor had confided to him about Dracula’s punishments meted out to women he had deemed unchaste. It was crucial that Dracula understood this child was conceived in lawful marriage and not the result of an earlier Ottoman rape. If he delayed in informing him, then doubts as to the baby’s paternity would grow in his mind, and he might not wait for the timing of the birth before deciding to take violent action. He quickly thought of an alternative answer for Soueti.

  “We will show how much we honor him by choosing him to be the first to hear our joyous news,” he said. “He must not think that we are keeping secrets from him. I know that Princess Elzbieta has been very kind to you, but Dracula rules here. I have seen that look on his face when the smallest germ of suspicion begins to grow in his mind. The first moment I saw him, I knew that Ekrem and Hassan were doomed, and I along with them, were it not for divine intervention.”