The Land Leviathan (A Nomad of the Time Streams Novel) (22 page)

At last the Land Leviathan rolled up and over the smoking, burning ruins while the air still resounded with the screams of those who had not been killed outright, who had been crushed beneath its great wheels or trapped somewhere under its belly. It rolled to the centre of the ruins and it stopped, squatting on the bones of its prey. Then, one by one, its lights began to wink out as the dawn rose behind it.

Now, indeed, the Land Leviathan was a triumphant beast.

I
ronically enough, it had been Mrs. Persson who had commanded the group of metal “moles” which had saved us in the compound. As I stood staring up at the Land Leviathan, oblivious of all else, I heard a shout from behind me, and there she was, her body half out of the forward hatch, waving to me.

“Good morning, Mr. Bastable. I thought we had lost you.”

I turned towards her, feeling very tired now. “Is it over?”

“Very nearly. We’ve received wireless reports that the Australasian-Japanese fleet has once again turned tail. It heard, over its own apparatus, that Washington was ours. I think they will be willing to negotiate the terms of a treaty with us now. Within the week we shall be heading South. The month should see the whole United States liberated.”

For once I did not respond sardonically to that word. Having witnessed the ferocity of the whites, I truly believed that the blacks had been liberated.

“Thank you for saving my life,” I said.

She smiled and made a little bow. “It was time I repaid you for what you did for me.” She looked up at a clear, cold sky. “Do you think it will snow, Mr. Bastable?”

I shrugged and trudged towards the metal mole. “Can you give me a lift, Mrs. Persson?”

“Willingly, Mr. Bastable.”

W
ell, Moorcock, that is pretty much the end of the tale I had for you. I remained in Hood’s service for the whole of the first year he spent in the United States. There was some pretty bloody fighting, particularly, as we had expected, in parts of the South (though there were also some areas where we discovered whites and blacks living in perfect harmony!) and not all of Hood’s methods of warfare were pleasant. On the other hand he was never unjust in his dealings with the defeated and never matched the ferocity and brutality of those we had encountered in Washington. Hood was not a kindly conqueror and he had the blood of many on his hands, but he was, in his own way, a just one. I was reminded, originally against my will, of William the Conqueror and the stern fair-mindedness with which he set about the pacification of England in the eleventh century.

Among other things, I had witnessed the public hanging of ‘President’ Beesley (discovered in the very sewers the blacks had used when hiding from him!) and many of his senior supporters, including ‘Bomber’ Joe Kennedy. That had not been pretty, particularly since Beesley and several of the others had died in a manner that was by no means manly.

Yet no sooner had Hood established his power than he set his war-machines to peaceful purposes. Huge ploughs were adapted, to be drawn by the ironclads, which could make a whole field ready for planting in a matter of minutes. The airships carried supplies wherever they were needed and only the Land Leviathan was not used. It remained where it had been since the morning after the battle, a symbol of Hood’s triumph. Later, the monster
would
be used when required, but Hood thought it politic to leave it where it was for a while, and I suppose he was right.

In the meantime, negotiations took place with the Australasian-Japanese Federation and a truce was agreed upon. Privately, Hood thought that it might be a temporary truce and that, having once broken their policy of isolationism, the Australasian-Japanese might attempt, at some future date, to invade. It was another reason why, during the talks which took place in Washington, he left the Land Leviathan in its position, glowering down upon us while we bargained. My own feelings were not entirely in accord with his. I thought it best to show them that we were no threat to their security, for after all they still had O’Bean working for them, but Hood said that there would be time enough in the future to show good faith; now we must not let them believe they could strike again while we were off-guard. President Gandhi would not have approved, but eventually I gave in to his logic.

I made one visit to Bantustan during the course of that year, to arrange for food and medical supplies to be sent out, for it would be some time before America was entirely self-supporting. It was a peculiar alliance, that between Gandhi, the man of peace, and Hood, the Black Attila, the quintessential warlord, but it seemed to be an alliance which would work, for both men had great respect for each other. During my leisure moments, I penned this ‘memoir’—mainly for your eyes, Moorcock, because I feel that I owe you something. If you can publish it—if you ever see it— well and good. Pretend that it is fiction.

I spent a considerable amount of time in the company of Mrs. Persson. She continued to remain a mysterious figure. I attempted to engage her in conversation about my previous adventures in a future age and she listened politely to me, but refused to be drawn. However, rightly or wrongly, I conceived the impression that she, like me, had also traveled through time and in various ‘alternate’ worlds. I also felt that she could so travel at will and I desperately hope that one day she will admit this and help me in returning to my own world. As it is, I have given her this manuscript and told her about you, the Valley of the Morning, and how important it is to me that you should read it. The rest I have left to her. It is quite possible that my convictions about her are wholly erroneous, but I think not. I even wonder how much she was responsible for Hood’s successes.

Black America is now a full partner in the Ashanti Empire. Her wealth returns and Negroes are running the country. The remaining whites are in menial positions, generally speaking, and will remain so for some time. Hood told me that he intends “to punish one generation for the crimes of its forefathers”. As the older generation dies out, according to Hood’s plan, he will gradually lift his heel from the neck of the white race. I suppose that it
is
justice, of a sort, though I cannot find it in my heart to approve wholly.

Myself and Una Persson, of course, are hated by the majority of whites in America. We are regarded as traitors and worse. But Mrs. Persson seems thoroughly unmoved by their opinion and I am only embarrassed by it.

However, I am a creature of my own age, and a year was about the most I could take of Hood’s America. Many of his men were good enough to tell me that they did not think of me as white at all, but got on with me as easily as any black man. I appreciated what they meant, but it by no means made up for the thinly disguised distaste with which I was regarded by many of the people with whom I had to mix at Hood’s ‘court’. Thus, eventually, I begged the Black Attila’s permission to rejoin the service of Bantustan. Tomorrow I shall board an airship which will take me back to Cape Town. Once there I’ll decide what to do.

You’ll remember I speculated on my fate once—wondering if I was doomed to wander through a variety of different ages, of worlds slightly different from my own, to experience the many ways in which Man can destroy himself or rebuild himself into something better. Well, I still wonder that, but I have the feeling that I do not enjoy the rôle. One day, I’ll probably go back to Teku Benga and enter that passage again, hope that it will take me through to a world where I am known, where my relatives will recognize me and I them, where the good old British Empire continues on its placid, decent course and the threat of a major war is very remote indeed. It’s not much to hope for, Moorcock, is it?

And yet, just as I feel a peculiar loyalty to you to try to get this story to you somehow, so I am beginning to develop a loyalty not to one man, like Hood or even Gandhi, not to one nation, one world or even one period of history! My loyalty is at once to myself and to all mankind. It’s hard for me to explain, for I’m not a thinking man, and I suppose it looks pretty silly written down, but I hope you’ll understand.

I don’t suppose, Moorcock, that I shall ever see you again, but you never know. I could turn up on your doorstep one day, with another ‘tall tale’ to tell you. But if I do turn up, then perhaps you should start worrying, for it could mean a war!

Good luck, old man.

Yours,

Oswald Bastable

I
t was getting on towards evening by the time I read the last few pages of Bastable’s manuscript, then picked up his note again, plainly written some time later, when he had become more depressed:

I am going to try my luck again. This time if I am not successful I doubt I shall have the courage to continue with my life (if it
is
mine).

I sighed, turning the note over and over in my hand, baffled and feeling that I must surely, this time, be dreaming.

Una Persson had gone—vanished into nowhere with her bandits and her guns of peculiar design and unbelievable efficiency (surely proof of Bastable’s own story and of his theories concerning her!). All I had left was the horse which, if I was lucky, if I did not lose my bearings, if I wasn’t slaughtered by bandits, might get me back, say, to Shanghai. I had lost most of my baggage, a fair amount of money and a good deal of time, and all I had to show for it was a mystifying manuscript! Moreover, Una Persson herself had become just as tantalizing a mystery as Bastable. I was very little better off, as regards my own peace of mind, than when I set out.

Eventually I rose, went to my own room, and fell immediately asleep. In the morning I felt almost surprised when I saw the manuscript still beside me and, as I peered from my window, the horse placidly cropping at some sparse grass. I found a piece of paper and scribbled a note to Mrs. Persson, thanking her for her hospitality and her manuscript. Then, by way of a joke that was half serious, I scribbled my address in London and invited her to drop in and see me “if you are ever in my part of the twentieth century again”.

A month later, thin and exhausted, I arrived in Shanghai. I spent no more time in China than was necessary to get a passage home.

And here, sitting at my desk in my little study with its window overlooking the rolling, permanent hills of the West Riding, I read through Bastable’s manuscript and I try to understand the implications of his adventures, and I fail.

If anyone else
ever
reads this, perhaps they will be able to make more of it than I.

B
astable was mystified, my grandfather was mystified, and I must confess to being mystified myself—though such speculations are supposed to be my stock-in-trade. I have used, quite shamelessly, in novels of my own, some of the ideas found in the book I’ve named
The Warlord of the Air,
and, indeed, one or two of the characters (specifically Una Persson, who appears in
The English Assassin)
have been ‘lifted’. Perhaps Mrs. Persson will some time come across one of these books. If she does, I very much hope she will pay me a visit—and possibly give me an answer to the mystery of Oswald Bastable. I assure you that the moment she does, I shall pass the news on!

MICHAEL MOORCOCK

Somewhere in the twentieth century

M
ichael Moorcock is a prolific and award-winning writer with more than eighty works of fiction and non-fiction to his name. He is the creator of Elric of Melniboné, the Eternal Champion Jerry Cornelius and Colonel Pyat, amongst many other memorable characters. He is also the author of the
Hawksmoon
series of science-fantasy novels and the original
Doctor Who
novel,
The Coming of the Terraphiles.
Born in London, Moorcock now divides his time between Paris, France and Austin, Texas.

www.multiverse.org

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