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Overview
Joe Bodenland has figured out how to manipulate time—a discovery that leads him to Utah and an impossible sixty-five-million-year-old human gravesite. It is here that he learns of the existence of a monstrous race of intelligent predators as old as the dinosaur, and of the remarkable “train” the undead creatures use to travel back and forth from a Paleolithic past to a monstrous far future in which Homo sapiens are enslaved cattle. With the fate of all humanity at stake, Joe commandeers the ghostly transportation and rides it back to Victorian England, where he enlists the aid of a powerful ally, the author Bram Stoker, in the battle to secure Earth. But to prevent the coming apocalyptic nightmare, they must first confront and destroy the most cunning and deadly being the world has ever known: Lord Dracula, the immortal vampire.
The recipient of numerous awards and honors, including multiple Hugo and Nebula Awards and the Prix Jules Verne, Grand Master Brian W. Aldiss puts a bold new science ficion spin on Bram Stoker’s classic tale of vampiric horror. An ingenious reinvention of the Nosferatu myth, Dracula Unbound is a breakneck thrill ride from one of the most revered names in science fiction and fantasy.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504010375 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 05/19/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 279 |
| Sales rank: | 542,154 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Dracula Unbound
By Brian W. Aldiss
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1991 Brian AldissAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1037-5
CHAPTER 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.
At this hour of the morning the facade reflected the sun into the eyes of anyone approaching the corporation from the airport—as was an imposing lady who had flown in from Washington on a government craft. She was sheathed in a fabric which reflected back something of the luster from the corporation.
Her name was Elsa Schatzman, thrice-divorced daughter of Eliah Schatzman, and First Secretary at the Washington Department of the Environment. She looked as if she wielded power, and she did.
Joe Bodenland knew that Elsa Schatzman was in the offing. At present, however, he had little thought for her, being involved in an argument with his life's companion, Mina Legrand. While they talked, Bodenland's secretary continued discreetly to work at her desk.
"First things first, Birdie," said Bodenland, with a patience that was calculated to vex Mina.
Mina Legrand was another powerful lady, although the genial lines of her face did not proclaim that fact. She was tall and still graceful, although currently having weight problems despite an active life. Friends said of her, affectionately, that she put up with a lot of hassle from Joe; still closer friends observed that of late he was putting up with plenty from Mina.
"Joe, your priorities are all screwed up. You must make time for your family," she said.
"I'll make time, but first things first," he repeated.
"The first thing is it's your son's wedding day," Mina said. "I warn you, Joe, I'm going to fly down to Gondwana without you. One of these days I'll leave you for good, I swear I will."
Joe played a tune on his desk top with the fingers of his left hand. They were long blunt fingers with wide spadelike nails, ridged and hard. Bodenland himself resembled his fingers. He too was long and blunt, with an element of hardness in him that had enabled him to lead an adventurous life as well as to succeed in the competitive international world of selling scientific research. He set his head toward his right shoulder with a characteristic gesture as he asked, "How long has Larry been engaged to Kylie? Under a year. How long have we been pursuing the idea of inertial disposal? Over five years. Millions of dollars hang on Washington's favorable reception of today's demonstration. I just have to be here, Birdie, and that's that."
"Larry will never forgive you. Nor will I."
"You will, Mina. So will Larry. Because you two are human. Washington ain't."
"All right, Joe—you have the last word as usual. But you're in deep trouble as of now." With that, Mina turned and marched from the office. The door closed silently behind her; its suction arm prevented it from slamming.
"I'll be down there just as soon as I can," Bodenland called, having a last-minute twinge of anxiety.
He turned to his secretary, Rose Gladwin, who had sat silently at her desk, eyes down, while this heated conversation was going on.
"Birth, death, the great spirit of scientific inquiry—which of those is most important to a human being, Rose?"
She looked up with a slight smile.
"The great spirit of scientific inquiry, Joe," she said.
"You always have the right answer."
"I'm just informed that Ms. Schatzman is en route from the airport right now."
"Let me know as soon as she arrives. I'll be with Waldgrave."
He glanced at his watch as he went out, and walked briskly down the corridor cursing Washington and himself. It annoyed him to think that Larry was getting married at all. Marriage was so old-fashioned, yet now, at the turn of the century, it was coming back into fashion.
Bodenland and his senior research scientist, Waldgrave, were waiting in the reception area to welcome Ms. Schatzman when she arrived with her entourage. She was paraded through the technical floor, where everyone had been instructed to continue working as usual, to the laboratory with the sign in gilt on its glass door, INERTIAL RESEARCH.
Schatzman's questions indicated she had been properly briefed. He liked that, and her slightly plump fortyish figure in a tailored suit which signaled to him that human nature survived under the official exterior.
Various important figures were gathered in the lab for the demonstration, including a backer from the Bull-Brunswick Bank. Bodenland introduced Schatzman to some of them while technicians made everything finally ready. As she was shaking hands with the Bank, one of Bodenland's aides came up and spoke softly in Bodenland's ear.
"There's an urgent call for you from Utah, Joe. Bernard Clift, the archeologist. Says he has made an important discovery."
"Okay, Mike. Tell Bernard I'll call him back when possible."
In the center of the lab stood a glass cabinet much resembling a shower enclosure. Cables ran into it from computers and other machines, near which two assistants stood by a switchboard. The hum of power filled the air, lending extra tension to the meeting.
"You have all the technical specifications of the inertial disposal principle in our press and video pack, Ms. Schatzman," Bodenland said. "If you have no questions there, we'll move straight into the demonstration."
As he spoke, he gave a sign, and an assistant in a lab coat dragged forward a black plastic bag large enough to contain a man.
Waldgrave explained, "The bag is full of sand, nothing more. It represents a consignment of nuclear or toxic waste."
The bag was shut in the cabinet, remaining in full view through the glass as computers briefly chattered their calculations.
"Energy-consumption rates are high at present. This is just a prototype, you appreciate. We hope to lower tolerances in the next part of the program, when we have the okay from your department," Bodenland said. "Obviously energy input is related to mass of substance being disposed of."
"And I see you're using solar energy in part," Schatzman said.
"The corporation has its own satellite, which beams down the energy to our dishes here in Dallas."
Waldgrave got the nod from his boss. He signaled to the controls technician, who pressed the TRANSMIT pad.
The interior of the cabinet began to glow with a blue-mauve light.
Two large analog-type clocks with sweep hands were visible, one inside the cabinet, one on a jury rig outside, facing the first one. The sweep hand of the clock in the cabinet stopped at 10:16. At the same time, the clock itself began to disappear. So did the black plastic bag. In a moment it was gone. The cabinet appeared to be empty.
A brief burst of applause filled the room. Bodenland appeared noticeably less grim.
The party went to have drinks in a nearby boardroom, all tan leather upholstery and dracaena plants in bronze pots. There was a jubilation in the air which even the formality of the occasion did not kill.
As she sipped a glass of Perrier, Schatzman said, "Well, Mr. Bodenland, you appear to have invented the long-awaited time machine, no less."
He looked down into his vodka. So the woman was a fool after all. He had hoped for better. This woman was going to have to present his case before her committee in Washington; if she could reach such a basic misunderstanding after studying all the documentation already sent to her over the computer line, the chances for government approval of his invention were poor.
"Not a time machine, Ms. Schatzman. As we've made clear, our new process merely halts time-decay—much as refrigeration, let's say, slows or halts bacterial action. We found a sink in real time. The bag in the cabinet disappeared because it became suddenly stationary with regard to universal time-decay. It remained—it remains at 10:16 this morning. We are the ones who are traveling forward in time, at the rate of twenty-four hours a day. The bag remains forever where we put it, at 10:16. We can reach back and retrieve it if necessary, though the expenditure of energy increases geometrically as we progress further from entry point.
"The inertial disposal process is far from being a time machine. It is almost the reverse."
Ms. Schatzman did not greatly enjoy being talked down to. Perhaps her remark had been intended humorously. "The department will need to inquire into what happens to substances isolated at 10:16, or any other time. It would be irresponsible simply to isolate considerable amounts of toxic waste in time with no clear picture of possible consequences."
"How long do you estimate such an inquiry might take?"
"We're talking about something unprecedented, a disturbance in the natural order."
"Er—not if you have an understanding of the science of chaos."
She understood she had been snubbed. "An inquiry will of course occupy some weeks."
Bodenland took a generous swig of his vodka and inclined his head in her direction.
"The disposal of toxic waste represents one of the world's most pressing problems, Ms.
Schatzman. No one wants the stuff. Only a decade ago the cost of disposal of nuclear waste as prescribed by U.S. law was $2,500 per ton. It's thirty times higher now, and rising. Only last week the death of a whole village through the dumping of an illegally manufactured pesticide, Lindane, was reported in Bulgaria.
"That's where we come in. Bodenland Enterprises has developed a foolproof way of ridding the world of such evils. All we need is your department's clearance. You must persuade your committee not to stand in the way of progress."
She pronounced the last word at the same moment as he did, "Progress," echoing it ironically. "'Progress' cannot be achieved at the expense of safety. You're familiar with that concept. It's what we call the Frankenstein Syndrome." She attempted a lightness of tone. "You know the department will do what it can, Mr. Bodenland. You also know how thoroughly this new advance will have to be investigated. We have our responsibilities—there are security aspects, too. May I suggest that meanwhile you turn your inventive mind to other matters?"
"Sure," he said, setting his glass down and rising. "I'm going to turn my inventive mind to being a late guest at my son's wedding."
A jazz band was playing an arrangement of "Who's Sorry Now?" when Joe Bodenland entered the main reception room of the Gondwana Ranch, the home in which he and Mina had lived for a decade. At present it was full of flowers and guests.
Some of the wedding guests were dancing, some drinking, and some no doubt otherwise engaged. The caterers hired for the occasion were bearing savory and sweet dishes to and fro, while the popping of champagne corks could be heard above the noise of the band.
Bodenland exchanged compliments and good wishes with a number of family friends as he made his way to where Larry Bodenland stood with his bride, receiving congratulations.
Kylie greeted Joe warmly enough, flinging her arms round his neck and kissing him on the mouth. Kylie was a beautiful girl, with a round face on which good features were set wide apart, giving her a singularly open appearance. Joe had already discovered that Kylie was no mere innocent. She had—beside the considerable fortune accruing from her father's transport business—a sharp and inquiring mind. But for the moment it was enough to feel her slender body against his as he reveled in her sunny good looks and wished her all future happiness.
"Just see that Larry behaves himself," he said, giving her an extra hug.
Larry overheard the remark. As he shook his father's hand, he said, "How about behaving yourself, Joe? How come you were late for my wedding? Was that deliberate? We know how irrational you are on the subject of matrimony."
"Now don't you two start in," Kylie said. "Not today of all days." She raised a hand halfway to her throat, as if to indicate the crucifix hanging there. "You know my funny religious principles, Joe, and you must honor Larry for respecting them."
"Well, bless you both, and I hate myself for missing the ceremony. Don't blame me—blame the Department of the Environment in Washington, who nailed me to this morning's appointment."
"Family certainly can't compete with a whole Department of the Environment," Larry said huffily.
"Joe has to follow his demon," Kylie said, winking at her new father-in-law.
"What demon's that?" asked Larry.
"Now, Larry—your pop is a technophile of the old school. He's crazy about machines and you must allow him that."
"Just as you're crazy about religion, if I can put it that way."
"Religion still has a place, even in an age of science, and—"
"Spare us!" cried Larry. "I need another drink. It's my wedding day." As he and Kylie turned away, his mother came up to Joe, smiling in a brittle way.
"You missed the ceremony and hit the champagne," she said angrily. "Larry and Kylie will never forgive you for this."
"I'm sorry, Mina." He took her hand, looking compassionately into her green eyes. For all his kind of hasty blindness, one of his characteristics, he knew very well what was in her mind at that moment. They had had another son, Larry's older brother, Dick, killed in a car crash together with his young wife, Molly. Joe and Mina adopted their two orphaned children shortly after the crash.
Dick had always been his father's favorite, a brilliant youngster, athletic, and with a deep interest in science, particularly particle physics. Molly too had been clever and high-spirited, a redhead whose body, at the age of twenty-two, had been inextricably merged with her husband's in the fatal crash. It was Molly, not Dick, who returned to Joe in dreams. Dick had gone beyond recall, leaving no space for his younger brother in his father's affections.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Dracula Unbound by Brian W. Aldiss. Copyright © 1991 Brian Aldiss. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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