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  Dracula Unbound

  Brian W. Aldiss

  For Frank

  who was sitting at our dining table

  when the specter arose

  Nicht sein kann, was nicht sein darf.

  Gondwana Ranch

  Gondwana, Texas 75042

  U.S.A.

  August 18, 1999

  Dearest Mina,

  Soon we’ll be living in a new century. Perhaps there we shall discover ill defined states of mind, at present unknown. You, who have returned from the dead, will be better able to face them than I.

  For my own part, I am more prepared than I was to acknowledge that many people spend periods of their lives in more unusual mental states—not neurotic or psychotic—than science is at present inclined to allow. I also know those nameless psychic states valued by many rebels of society. They are not for me. In the account that follows—in which we both feature—there’s terror, horror, wonder, and something that has no name. A kind of nostalgia for what has never been experienced.

  Did all this happen? Was I mad? Did you pass through those dreadful gates set at the end of life? I still see, with shut eyes but acute mental vision, those unhallowed things that appeared. And I believe that I would rather be mad than that they should run loose on the world.

  Have patience and hope. We still have a long way to go together, dearest.

  Your loving Joe

  NOW YORK, May 24—A sale of books was held in the auction rooms of Christie, Manson & Woods, Park Avenue, New York, on May 23, 1996.

  A first edition of Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula was sold for $6,900 to an anonymous buyer. The volume was published in Cr. 8vo. by Constable & Co. of Westminister, in May 1897, bound in yellow boards blocked in red. This copy was in remarkably fine condition.

  On the flyleaf was written, in faded Stephens ink:

  To Joseph Bodenland,

  Who gave the mammals their big chance—

  And me a title—

  Affectionately,

  This perplexing message was dated Chelsea, May 1897, and signed with a flourish by the author, Bram Stoker.

  Prologue

  In a region of the planet enduring permanent twilight stood the Bastion.

  All the territory about the Bastion was as wrinkled and withered as aged skin. Low ground-hugging plants grew there, some with rudimentary intelligence, capable—like the creatures inhabiting the Bastion—of drinking human blood.

  Six men were walking in single file through this dangerous area, progressing toward the dark flanks of the Bastion. The men were joined to each other by metal chains clamped to their upper arms. In the heat of the perpetual evening, they were scantily clad. They went barefoot.

  They made no haste as they progressed forward, walking with heads and shoulders drooping, their dull gaze fixed on the ground. The stiffness of their movements owed less to the weight of their chains than to a prevailing despair, to which every limb of their bodies testified.

  Low above them flew the guardian of this human line. The flier exhibited a degree of majesty as his great wings beat their way slowly through the viscous air. He was as much a creature of custom as the six men below him, his duty being merely to see that they returned to the warrens of the Bastion.

  Before their fighting spirit was eroded, these six had often in the past plotted escape. It was rumored that somewhere ruinous cities still stood, inhabited by tribes of men and women who had managed to hold out against the Fleet Ones as the centuries declined: that somewhere those virtues by which humans had once set great store were still preserved, against the onslaught of night.

  But no one incarcerated in the Bastion knew how to reach the legendary cities. Few had stamina enough to endure a long journey overland.

  All the six desired at present was to return to their prison. Their shift as cleaners in the Mechanism was over for the day. Soup and rest awaited them. The horror of their situation had long since dulled their senses. In the underground stabling, where humans and animals were indifferently herded together, the myrmidons of the Fleet Ones would bring round their rations. Then they could sleep.

  As for the weekly levy of blood to be paid while they slept … even that nightmare had become mere routine.

  So they negotiated the path through the blood-thirst-plants and came with some relief to the stoma gaping at the base of the Bastion, waiting to swallow them. The guardian alighted, folded away his wings, and directed them through the aperture. Hot and fetid air came up to meet them like a diseased breath.

  The concretion into which they disappeared rose high into the saffron-tinted atmosphere, dominating the landscape in which it stood. It resembled a huge anthill. No conceptions of symmetry or elegance of any kind had entered the limited minds of its architects. It had reared itself upward on a random basis. Its highest central point resembled a rounded tower, reinforcing the impression that the whole structure was a kind of brute phallus which had thrust its way through the body of the planet.

  Here and there on the flanks of the Bastion, features obtruded. Some resembled malformed limbs. Some twisted upward, or sideways. Some turned down and burrowed again into the ravaged soil, serving as buttresses to the main structure.

  The main portions of the Bastion lay below-ground, in its unending warrens, stables, and crypts. The structure above-ground was blind. Not a window showed. The Fleet Ones were no friends of light.

  Yet on higher levels orifices gaped, crudely shaped. Much coming and going was in evidence at these vents. Here the Fleet Ones could conveniently launch themselves into flight: as they had done at the beginning of time, so now at its end.

  Only the orifice at the top of the pile, larger than all the others, was free of sinister traffic. It was reserved for the Prince of Darkness himself, Lord Dracula. This was his castle. He would launch himself from this great height whenever he was about to go on a mission into the world—as even now he was preparing to do.

  As the shift of six began its winding descent into underground levels, to rest in the joyless inanition of slaves, four other men of a different caliber were preparing to leave the Mechanism.

  These four, in luckier days, had been scientists. Captive, they remained free of shackles so that they could move without impediment in the building. The genetically nonscientific species who held them in captivity had abducted them from various epochs of past history. They were guarded; but because they were necessary for the maintenance of the Mechanism, their well-being within the Bastion was assured. They merely had to work until they died.

  The leader of the quartet came down from the observatory, checking the time on his watch.

  The leader, elected by common consent, was a tall man in his late thirties. The Fleet Ones had captured him from the Obsidional Century. His brilliant mind and indomitable spirit were such that the others took courage from him. Someone had once claimed that his brain represented the flowering of the sapient Homo sapiens. The plan about to be transformed from theory into action was a product of his thought.

  “We have two minutes to go, friends,” he said now, as they were closing down their instruments.

  The Mechanism—ignorantly so called by the Fleet Ones—was a combined solar observatory and power house. All space observatories had long been destroyed by the deteriorating sun.

  It was the power function which was all important. The platforms of the Mechanism, shelving out like giant fungi, controlled solar satellites which drained the energies of the sun. These energies were redirected to meet the needs of the Fleet Ones—and in particular the n
eeds of the Fleet Ones’ single innovatory form of transportation.

  The scientists were forced to work for their hated enemies. They ran everything as inefficiently as possible. Because the Mechanism was lighted brilliantly to allow the humans to work, the Fleet Ones would not enter. They posted their guardians outside, continually circling the immense structure.

  “Delay here,” said the leader sharply. The four of them were in the foyer, preparing to go off shift and be returned to the Bastion. He glanced again at his watch.

  “According to our predictions, there’s now a minute to go.”

  Beyond the glass doors, they could see the familiar tarnished landscape like a furrowed brow. In the distance, failed hills, shattered riverbeds, all lost in an origami of light and shade. Nearer at hand, the prodigious thrust of the Bastion, circled by leathery fliers. As a sudden stormy wind buffeted them, the fliers resembled dead leaves blowing at autumn’s call. Shunning the light, they had no knowledge of the phenomenon approaching from space.

  Just outside the doors, fluttering like a bat, the lead guardian on duty came down to an unsteady landing. He braced himself against the wind.

  Lifting a hand to shield his brow, he stared in at the scientists, his red eyes set amid the dark skin and fur of the sharp-fanged visage. He beckoned to them.

  They made some pretense of moving toward the doors, heading instead for a metal reception counter.

  Thirty seconds to go.

  The lower western sky was filled with a sun like an enormous blossom. It was the flower which had already destroyed all the flowers of Earth. Imperfectly round, its crimson heart crackled with stamens of lightning. The solar wind blew its malevolent pollens about the planets. Round it orbited the four solar stations which were leaching it of its energies, sucking them down into the subterranean storehouses of the Mechanism. On the face of this great helium-burner moved vortices which could swallow worlds. They showed like rashes of a disease, as if they worked at the debridement of an immense bloated organ.

  In the midst of this solar turmoil—as those in the observatory had predicted—a magnesium-white eruption flowered.

  “Now!” cried the leader. The thirty seconds were up.

  They flung themselves down on the floor behind the metal barrier, burying their heads in their arms, closing their eyes.

  Precisely at the time they had estimated, the shell flash ejected from the sun. It illuminated the world with floods of light and fury. Screaming wind followed it in a shock wave, traveling along down the throat of the system until, many hours later, it punched itself out beyond the heliopause and far into outer space. As it radiated outward, it licked with its scorching tongue much of the atmosphere from the vulnerable worlds in its path.

  Only the four scientists were prepared for the event.

  They lay behind their shelter while the world smoldered outside. Their guardian had fallen like a cinder.

  They rose cautiously at last. They stood. They stared at each other, stared at the blackened landscape outside, where the Bastion remained intact. Then, according to plan, they headed for the stairs leading to the upper floors. Electrostatic action in the tormented air rendered the elevators inoperative. Their hair sparkled and sang as they moved.

  Oxygen was scarce. Yet they forced themselves on, knowing they must act now, while the Fleet Ones were stunned.

  Through waves of heat they climbed, dragging the vitiated air into their lungs. On one landing they collected a wing from a storage cupboard, on another landing another wing. Sections of body structure, improvised from dismantled parts of the Mechanism, were also gathered as they climbed. By the time they reached the observatory on the highest level, they had merely to secure the various parts together and they had a glider large enough to carry a man.

  The landscape they surveyed was covered in fast-moving smoke. The pall washed against the two edifices of Bastion and Mechanism like a spring tide.

  One detail they did observe. The bloodthirst-plants were cautiously poking their muzzles from the ground again. They were intelligent enough, yet part of nature enough, to have sensed when the shell flash was coming and to retreat underground from it. But the men wasted little time in observing the phenomenon.

  “Is the air calm enough for flight?” a small, bearded man asked the leader. “Suppose all the cities containing men have just been destroyed by fire?”

  “We’ve no alternative but to try,” said the leader. “This is our one chance. The next shell flash is many lifetimes away.” Yet he paused before climbing into the glider, as if to hear what his friends had to say at this solemn moment.

  The bearded man perhaps regretted his hesitation in the face of the other’s courage.

  “Yes, of course you must go,” he said. “Somehow we have to get word of what is happening here back to the far past. The ginger man has to be informed.”

  The scientist standing next to him said, in sorrowful disagreement, “Yet all the old legends say that Dracula destroyed Stoker.”

  The leader answered firmly, addressing them all, with the sense of parting heavy upon them. “We have argued the situation through sufficiently. Those old legends may be wrong, for we well understand how history can be changed. Our given three-dimensional space is only one dimension within the universe’s four-dimensional space. Time is a flexible element within it. No particle has a definite path, as the uncertainty principle states. We have been enslaved here at the end of the world in order to help generate the colossal voltages the Fleet Ones require to regiment those paths. I shall seek out the other end of their trail—and there I believe the legendary Stoker is to be found. It is Stoker after all who is one of Earth’s heroes, the stoker—as his name implies—who brought fire with which to burn out a great chance for all mankind.”

  “So he did,” agreed the others, almost in chorus. And one of them, the youngest, added, “After all, this horrendous present, according to the laws of chaos, is a probability only, not an actuality. History can be changed.”

  The leader began to step into the glider. Again the bearded man detained him.

  “Just wait till these winds have died. The glider will have a better chance then.”

  “And then the Fleet Ones will be back on the attack. It’s necessary that I go now.”

  He looked searchingly into their faces. “I know you will suffer for this. My regret is that we were unable to fashion a plane large enough to carry all four of us. Always remember—I shall succeed or die in the attempt.”

  “There are states far worse than death where the Fleet Ones are concerned,” said the bearded man, mustering a smile. He made to shake the leader’s hand, changed his mind, and embraced him warmly instead.

  “Farewell, Alwyn. God’s grace guide you.”

  The leader stepped into the machine.

  The others as prearranged pushed it to the edge of the drop—and over. The glider fell until its wings bit into the air. It steadied. It began to fly. It circled, it even gained height. It began heading toward the east.

  The scientists left behind stood watching until the glider was faint in the murk.

  Their voices too went with the wind.

  “Farewell, Alwyn!”

  1

  State Highway 18 runs north from St. George, through the Iron Mountains, to the Escalante Desert. One day in 1999, it also ran into a past so distant nobody had ever dared visualize it.

  Bernard Clift had worked in this part of Utah before, often assisted by students from Dixie College with a leaning toward paleontology. This summer, Clift’s instincts had led him to dig on the faulty stretch of rock the students called Old John, after the lumber-built privy near the site, set up by a forgotten nineteenth-century prospector.

  Clift was a thin, spare man, deeply tanned, of medium height, his sharp features and penetrating gray eyes famous well beyond the limits of his own profession. There was a tenseness about him today, as if he knew that under his hand lay a discovery which was to bring him even greater
fame, and to release on the world new perspectives and new terror.

  Over the dig a spread of blue canvas, of a deeper blue than the Utah sky, had been erected to shade Clift and his fellow-workers from the sun. Clustered below the brow of rock where they worked were a dozen miscellaneous vehicles—Clift’s trailer, a trailer from Enterprise which served food and drink all day, and the cars and campers belonging to students and helpers.

  A dirt road led from this encampment into the desert. All was solitude and stillness, apart from the activity centered on Old John. There Clift knelt in his dusty jeans, brushing soil and crumbs of rock from the fossilized wooden lid they had uncovered.

  Scattered bones of a dinosaur of the Saurischian order had been extracted from the rock, labeled, temporarily identified as belonging to a large theropod, and packed into crates. Now, in a stratum below the dinosaur grave, the new find was revealed.

  Several people crowded round the freshly excavated hole in which Clift worked with one assistant. Cautious digging had revealed fossil wood, which slowly emerged in the shape of a coffin. On the lid of the coffin, a sign had been carved:

  Overhead, a vulture wheeled, settling on a pinnacle of rock near the dig. It waited.

  Clift levered at the ancient lid. Suddenly, it split along the middle and broke. The paleontologist lifted the shard away. A smell, too ancient to be called the scent of death, drifted out into the hot dry air.

  A girl student with the Dixie College insignia on her T-shirt yelped and ran from the group as she saw what lay in the coffin.

  Using his brush, Clift swept away a layer of red ocher. His assistant collected fragile remains of dead blossom, placing them reverently in a plastic bag. A skeleton in human form was revealed, lying on its side. Tenderly, Clift brushed clear the upper plates of the skull. It was twisted round so that it appeared to stare upward at the world of light with round ochered eyes.

  The head offices and laboratories of thriving Bodenland Enterprises were encompassed in bronzed glass-curtain walls, shaped in neocubist form and disposed so that they dominated one road approach into Dallas, Texas.