Dracula Unbound (23 page)

Bodenland played idly with the strap of his helmet, which he had placed on the table.

“And how can I help you in all this—this tale of defeat or triumph, depending on which side you look at it from?”

“Let's talk about the time train, Mr. Bodenland.”

“Ah yes.” He brought the helmet up and over in a swing of the arm, crashing it down on the other's head. At the same moment he was up and running. He had caught a flash of canines when Ali smiled.

In the vicinity of the agricultural station, nothing moved. Nothing, that is, except young Spinks.

Spinks was a muscular fellow in his early twenties. His healthy features denoted the outdoor life he led. He walked smartly up and down between the stationary time train and the wall of the enormous building. Bram Stoker sat in the shade of the building with his back to the wall, watching idly.

“You carry yourself well, Spinks. Ever thought of joining the British Army?”

“Me, sir? No, sir.”

“A great pity that, a great pity. Now my father-in-law, James Balcombe, joined the army as a young man and made a good career of it. Would have made a full colonel but for a general who … Well, never mind that. He fought in the Crimean War and got a medal.”

“My grandpa fought in the Crimean War, sir. He got a wooden leg.”

Stoker was silent a moment.

“Well, it's the luck of the draw. I must say, Joe doesn't seem to be having much luck. We've been hanging about here for a month of Sundays. Maybe I'd better go and see what he thinks he's doing. On the other hand … Have we finished off that roast duck Mrs. Stoker packed?”

“There's a wing left, sir, and a slice of cucumber.”

“Better save it, I suppose. Frugal it has to be.” He rose and stretched. “Could be the devils have us in a trap. Always fear the Un-Dead, who envy the living—as well they might. Ireland's a pretty place, but not if you're looking up at it from under the sod.”

Continuing with his guard duty, Spinks said, “I don't understand one thing. If the vampires can travel through time on this here train, how come they aren't aware of what's going on now? How come they don't know we're here?”

Mopping his face, Stoker said, “It's a little hot for such problems, Spinks. But you might consider this. There's a devil of an amount of time—millions and millions of years of it, according to Mr. Bodenland, wrapping the Earth around—more time than even great intellects like yours and mine can grasp, never mind the dessicated soup that vampires have for brains. They'd have an impossible job to survey any particular minute, or year even.”

“Supposing they happened to be passing in another train?”

The ginger man shook his head. “That can't happen. Our friend who's traveling with us in his box—once no less than the driver of the train—told Joe that there was only one train, which is in our possession.” He considered. “Though I can't understand why there should be only one.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you there, sir.”

The conversation made them nervous. They agreed, however, that they could not be in a trap, since the vampires would not strike in broad daylight, being photophobic.

The day, however, was becoming uncomfortably hot. They decided to retire into the agricultural station. It was cooler inside.

“That's better. How're the stocks of lemonade and whiskey?”

“Frugal it has to be, sir. Tell you what, take your mind off things, we could play a game of French cricket between us.”

“Light's a bit poor in here for cricket, Spinks … Oh, yes, come on, why not? Capital idea. I bags be Hampshire. Go and get the bat and ball out of the train, there's a good feller.”

The pollution was particularly thick outside the prime minister's palace in Tripoli's main square. All men in the crowd wore elaborate helmets to guard against the poisons, many of them draping their
keffiyeh
over the helmets. With the cunning of a pickpocket, Bodenland stole one of the scarves from a stall, and tied it round his own helmet, making himself less conspicuous.

He seemed to have shaken Ali, though beyond doubt there would be other Un-Dead agents in the crowd, awaiting the final collapse of the Silent Empire.

That time could be only days away at most.

Many of the shops were shuttered. Some carried poignant messages of farewell. Families were leaving, with a few worldly possessions piled on handcarts or donkeys, seeking to escape an inevitable doom. Bodenland searched for a lawyer, or someone of standing who might answer questions, but it seemed as if the professional classes had already left Tripoli under cover of darkness. Over the many thousands of citizens who remained an intense excitement quivered, almost as if the end were invited and—now it was so near—desired. What is most feared is secretly loved.

During the midday prayer, many prostrated themselves in the streets, facing toward a Mecca that had already been extinguished. Afterward the prime minister came out of the palace, to appear on behalf of the emperor.

The prime minister was a tall, solemn man. The crowds called his name and rushed forward, waving, to crush themselves at the barriers which prevented common people from approaching too close to the great building.

He spoke from the steps of the palace, his amplified voice carrying round the square. Thousands listened, not all of them patiently.

From a gate in the palace wall, a great black cube was emerging, draped in a Libyan flag. The cube was carried on a metal litter, wheeled, and supported by as many hands as could get near. It was brought out ceremoniously and placed in the square, where a flatbed truck waited.

A loud cry went up at the sight of the black cube, a cry at once cheer and wail. For the prime minister was making it clear that the cube contained Libya's superweapon, the F-bomb, the only one they had been able to manufacture.

Now that the hour of judgment was upon them, the prime minister said, they knew not how to strike against the Silent Ones. The bomb was useless as a defensive weapon. However, he, on behalf of the emperor and his people, was not going to allow the F-bomb to fall into the hands of their enemies. Was this not correct?

A great roar from the crowd gave him an affirmative answer.

Very well, the weapon was about to be taken to the desert, and detonated a safe distance away. No one would be harmed.

While the prime minister was speaking, a modest-sized metal suitcase painted red and green was brought out from the cube. Two men, moving it with care, strapped it on the waiting truck.

And the prime minister said, “My people, let us pray for wisdom and the protection of Allah in this hour of grief.”

Whereupon the whole assembly in the square fell upon their knees and touched heads to the ground. And a cry of supplication rose from them.

Of all the thousands of people there, not one was looking. Bodenland jumped into the nearside of the cab of the truck and rammed a revolver at the head of the driver.

“Drive on!” Bodenland ordered, looking as desperate as he felt.

Eyes bulging, the man drove.

“Faster,” said Bodenland.

In a moment they were out of the square and heading out of town.

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.