by Kim Newman
By the lake, Poe and Theo waited for dawn. The clamour of battle had passed, carried past the lines into enemy territory.
'Heroes make them uncomfortable, Eddy. Those little men with their little books. They need their glory, but they feed on it as we feed on blood. Your book was always supposed to be a memorial, a glorious tomb to inspire more heroes. They are to burn like comets and be snuffed out, while the book-keepers crawl on through centuries. Millions have died in this war. Anonymous statistics. That is what Dracula has made of us. Meaningless names in a book of the dead.'
Poe looked at his manuscript. There was a great spark in it. It was a dream, an inspiration. Reading of this knight of futurity, generation upon generation of boys would aspire to serve Germany as had Manfred von Richthofen.
'Dracula doesn't care for the Richthofens, Eddy. The excellent, the brave, the mad. He is happier with Gorings about him, fathead bureaucrats of death.'
Poe let the first pages of the manuscript slip from the bundle, sliding towards the waters of the lake. As they rested on the calm surface, ink blurring, his heart ached. It might be those words were the last of his genius, the last he would ever write. Vampire dullness was settling around his mind.
Theo laid a hand on his shoulder, understanding. With a swift throw, Poe cast the pages into the air. They formed a cloud and settled into the lake, merging into sodden lumps, skittering across the surface for yards before being whisked under. Poe took off his greatcoat, ran his thumb over the newly earned epaulettes of rank, and tossed the thing into the water, disturbing the sargasso of pages.
'I consider my commission resigned,' he said.
The sleeves of Poe's coat tangled like the arms of a corpse. An unknown current, peculiar to the centre of the lake, sucked the morass of cloth and words into its heart. The deep and dank lake closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of Der rote Kampfflieger.
'If you stay here, the French will come back, eventually,' Theo said. 'You can write another book. A clear-eyed book, conveying the truth.'
'The truth interests me little, Theo.'
The officer shrugged. 'That doesn't surprise me.'
'What will you do now?' Poe asked.
Before he turned and walked away from the shadow of the castle, Theo showed his old smile and said, 'Eddy, I shall fight for my country.'
47
Aftermath
Guns empty and petrol tank getting there, Winthrop had to land. Maranique, probably in German hands, was out of the picture so he looked for one of the fall-back positions towards Amiens. In the excitement, he had rather lost his bearings.
Sighting by the stars, he flew east. Below, convoys of reinforcements hurried towards the front. Streams of retreating troops passed them by or dug in to make a stand. At least Hunland hadn't crept out under him like a carpet. He didn't have to come down and surrender.
With Ball and Kate burned out of him, Winthrop was clearer in his mind, as if he had just awoken from an unpleasant but interesting dream. But he was exhausted, forgotten wounds troubled him again and he felt the loss. Without Ball's whisper in his mind, he found he was an indifferent pilot.
The stick wrestled in his grip. Previously, he had been a component part of his machine. Now he was mounted on a rebellious beast which would do its best to throw him if he showed any signs of weakness. The wires shrieked and the engine coughed.
There was a temptation to pull the stick back and let go, ascending towards nothingness. He was a ghost of a ghost now, no longer the man he was nor the creature he had become.
Some spark in him wished to continue with life. He fumbled the stick and evened the wings, keeping the bubble centred in the spirit-level. He was prepared to consider any stretch of uninterrupted road or grass as a landing site. But tonight the landscape was infested with men. Years of stalemate seemed over and the war of movement was restarted.
Familiar lights burned off to his left.
A field was marked out with fizzing Verey flares. He hoped whoever was running the show had the sense to keep the ground cleared. There wasn't enough fuel to circle and check out the terrain. He aimed the Camel between the purple lights and went down.
His wheels bumped in long grass. The Camel bounced off the ground, nose angling down. Winthrop knew the machine was going to turn tail and plough his head into the dirt.
Something snapped and twanged, whipping his face. The Camel was tumbling upwards and over. He hit the release mechanism of his straps and shot out of his seat. The stick jabbed his gut and groin. Wings crumpled around him. The ground came up and slammed against his head. A couple of hundredweight of debris came down on his back.
There were shouts. Liquid was trickling past him, smelling like petrol.
He was dragged boneless out of the wreck. He heard the crump of his remaining fuel going up, and felt the waft of warm, oily air. Flame darts rained down.
Death reached out a hand for him, closing on his heart and mind, but its fingers lost their grip and he screamed with life. He sucked down air, and was helped to sit up.
Opening his eyes, he saw the heaped bonfire that had been his Camel.
'You won't do that again in a hurry, I'll wager,' someone said.
She had been slung in the back of a lorry with the wounded. After a couple of miles of rutted roads, most of the wounded were dead. Kate had been hit a couple of times, but not with silver. The mud in her clothes had dried, mummifying her in stiff cloth. She had lost her scavenged tin helmet.
She was in a daze, curiously distanced from her body. It would be easy to flutter off into the dark and leave behind a living corpse. Would it continue without her? Perhaps this was how vampires became mindless thirsty things.
A boy in her arms called her Edith. She tried to comfort him anyway. Blood trickled through his field dressings but she would not drink from him. For the first time in her undeath, she'd had enough blood.
Genevieve had once told her, 'Vampires don't drink blood because we have to, we drink blood because we like it.' Kate was fed up with trying to be like Genevieve. It was time to become a twentieth century girl. Rather than spend five weeks cleaning mud out of her hair, she'd have it cropped and bobbed. The earth mask on her face cracked and came off in sections.
The lorry kept pulling over to the roadside to let reinforcements pass. British tanks rumbled into the fray to counter the German machines. A platoon of Americans, new to the fighting, were driven past. They called out in sympathy to the lorry of mainly corpses, throwing across packs of cigarettes.
Kate stuck a gasper in her mouth but had no matches. The taste of tobacco was enough of a jolt just now.
Having been in the thick of it, she had no idea what had really happened. The German offensive had broken through. After the widespread breaching of the lines, the Allies had thrown hidden reserves into the fight. It might have gone either way. The war could be won or lost.
The lorry left the road and made its rough way over fields, creaking over newly laid boards.
A huge fire burned in a forested patch, where a Zeppelin had come down. Kate craned and saw the vast circles of the airship's ribs still linked in the forest of flame. The heat roused Edith's young man, who turned to gape.
it's the plain of hell,' he said.
There were quite a few fellows mixing in the tent city at the edge of the field, pilots from forward outfits who had also fallen back. Winthrop found himself a dryish patch of grass and slumped there. Someone gave him a cigarette and a light. He asked if any other men from Condor Squadron had made it home safe. Everyone seemed to think so but no one could give him names.
Pilots stood about the field, sweaty in Sidcots, soot-rings about their eyes. Some were quietly wounded, most were exhausted. Acting Sergeant Chandler, an American in brand- new RAF fatigues, was responsible for compiling details of men and machines who had made it back.
'Are you a warm man?' he asked Winthrop.
Winthrop thought about it and said yes.
'Good
for you,' said Chandler. He wasn't a vampire, but almost all the pilots he was herding were. 'Bloody good for you.'
'I'm with Condor Squadron. Have you logged any others from the outfit?'
He looked down his list.
'A white knight named Bigglesworth, shot down weeks ago, showed up tonight. Made it back through the lines on foot.'
Good grief.'
'Otherwise, no one yet. But don't give up hope. It's a typical shambles, actually.'
Suddenly, a ragged cheer went up from the crowd. There was a field telephone in one of the tents and good news had come through.
'Have we beaten the bastards back?' Chandler asked a grinning young pilot.
'No, better than that. Richthofen's dead. Confirmed. Aussie ground fire got him. Heavy Archie.'
'It should have been one of our blokes,' a British flight lieutenant said. 'A pilot. Should've paid him back for Hawker and Albright and Ball.'
'Ball was the other Richthofen's. The brother.'
Already, the facts were blurring. Winthrop had shot baron von Richthofen just before the German died. He could claim the victory. But he said nothing, just listened.
'They're talking about burying him with honours. Sporting spirit and all that.'
'They should cut off his rotten head and stuff the mouth with garlic, then bury him face-down at a crossroads with a silver spike through his black heart.'
'Taking it a bit personal?'
Winthrop didn't listen any more. It wasn't his war now. Kate was recovered enough to feel she was using a space that would be more usefully occupied by a genuinely wounded soldier. She left Edith's young man to his own devices and slipped off the back of the lorry.
Her legs were still a bit rubbery.
As she walked, dry earth cascaded from her clothes. She'd have given a hundred years of her life for a hot bath. Wandering through crowds, as pre-dawn light filtered into the sky, she picked up snippets of gossip, rumour and news.
Most people agreed the German advance had halted. Some said the Allies had lured the Boche into a trap and cut them to pieces from entrenched rear positions. Some said German troops were so successful in the initial breakthrough that they were cut off from their orders and milled about with nothing to do, wondering at the supplies of food they found in the Allied messes. After years of starvation and blockade, the Hun was undone by the maddening smell of new-baked bread.
Kate did not know if she could write about the night.
She walked, not knowing where she was going. A rumour went around that Baron von Richthofen was dead. So that was that.
At dawn, the new-born pilots took refuge in the tents. Winthrop lay where he had fallen, Sidcot wadded into a pillow. The spring sun fell on his face. The noise of battle had receded.
Chandler told him word had come in from another of the temporary fields. A couple of Condor Squadron bods had turned up: Cary Lockwood, and Bertie and Ginger. So it had not been complete extermination.
Had any of JG1 survived? It didn't matter. The worst of them was gone. The terror was over.
Winthrop could no longer hate Richthofen. If the Allies buried the Baron with honours, he would stand as pall-bearer. He'd volunteer to fly over Hunland and drop whatever personal totems a shape-shifter took aloft with him. That, he hoped, would be his last flight.
The field and sunshine reminded him of a previous life. Cricket at Greyfriars. Spring walks with Catriona. He had a lot of things to mend. His knee burst with pain, reminding him of No Man's Land. Some things would never mend.
Kate found a fast-running stream. Not caring for modesty, she peeled off her mud-starched clothes, dislodging patches of encrusted dirt, and laid them on the stream-bed, weighting them with stones.
She looked down at herself and saw the body of a savage, marked with blood and different colours of dirt. Her wounds had healed over but were generously scabbed.
A passing line of troops whistled and cheered at her. Fresh from Paris, they must have seen better form at the Folies- Bergere.
She sat down in the stream and let the sun-dappled water wash around her. Lying back like Ophelia, she allowed her hair to wave in the current. Trails of dirt rushed away from her. She closed her eyes and tried to wish it all away.
The warm men had a tea-urn set up. There were no mugs, so Winthrop drank out of a porridge-bowl. Someone from Condor Squadron finally came in. Jiggs, the mechanic, with tales of a hairsbreadth escape and a shiny pair of German-made boots.
The offensive was pretty much blocked, it seemed. A rumour buzzed briefly that Dracula had been killed, but it died almost as soon as it started.
'Our field has gained a water nymph,' Chandler said. 'There's a beauty in danger of drowning over by the temporary hangars. She's wearing a pair of earrings.'
A long whistle cut through her reverie. She opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. A man stood on the bank of the stream, hands in his pockets.
'Why, Miss Mouse,' Edwin said. 'Doesn't the sun bring out your freckles nicely?' She shut her eyes and let her head sink back under the water.
48
England Calls
He had not been accepting telephone calls. Beauregard sat in his house in Cheyne Walk. Unopened letters were neatly laid on his desk. Bairstow, his manservant, discreetly arranged them each morning.
There was a slim envelope from California, his address in faint violet ink. This, he was tempted by. But he feared that to open it would be to be pulled back into turmoil he had left. Genevieve attracted troubles, trailing them through centuries. He still loved her, he supposed. A dead weight of useless emotion. Official communications, stamped 'URGENT', had been brought by postman and personal messenger. They also lay unopened.
He did not read the newspapers, but Bairstow conveyed the barest outlines of the course of the war. It was little satisfaction to know Caleb Croft had been relieved of his duties. Ruthven had many other men of his stamp ready to step in.
Dracula had been seen in Berlin, storming out of the Imperial Palace in a black humour after an argument with the Kaiser. Hindenburg was promoted to the position of commander-in- chief of armies that were shattered and demoralised by their recent reverses. Dracula was shouldering the blame for the ultimate failure of the Kaiserschlacht. It seemed the sacrifice of his doubles created a great deal of confusion and loss of morale in the ranks. The mediaeval tactic should be retired in this century. Dracula's fall would be only temporary. The worst ones always came back.
He spent time looking at old, framed photographs. The camera made vampires of all, preserving the young for the alien future. In one group, Pamela was alive again, posed by the river with a flock of little girls in sailor suits. A blurred boat passed in the background. The girls were Penelope, Kate, Lucy and Mina, warm and untidy, ignorant of the things they would become.
Mrs Harker had also written to him. She was forever organising for other people. She wished to hustle him into a new programme of activities.
Bairstow entered, bearing a calling card on a tin plate. The silver had gone for the war effort years ago. Beauregard tried to wave him away, but the servant was swept aside by a long- legged spider in grey.
'Prime Minister,' he acknowledged, not getting out of his chair.
'Beauregard, this is absurd. Have you any idea how many pressing matters compete for my attention? Yet, here I am like a common tradesman, forced to hie myself to your doorstep to solicit an answer?'
Ruthven was plainly agitated. From Churchill, Beauregard knew the cabinet were fractious. Lloyd George was proving more obstinate than anyone had supposed. The Prime Minister's position was entrenched, but hardly secure.
Lord Ruthven had not come alone. Smith-Cumming was with him, his leg grown anew.
'The Diogenes Club has reopened its doors to members,' Smith-Cumming declared.
'Croft's crew were worse than useless,' the Prime Minister ranted. 'His hare-brained assassination fantasies came close to losing us the war. The country needs living m
inds.'
'Mycroft's place on the Cabal is vacant,' said Smith-Cumming. 'Only one man can fill it, Beauregard.'
He looked at the two vampires, the shiftless elder and the solid new-born. Ruthven's hands were still on the tiller of state, embattled though he was. Smith-Cumming was a good man, blood-drinker or no. There were still good men.
Mycroft had preserved much of value from the past in this changed century. Without him, the Ruthvens and the Crofts crept on selfishly, wasting too many lives in a pursuit of power without purpose.
'Beauregard, please,' begged the Prime Minister.
In the absence of Croft and the Diogenes Club, the British Secret Service was run by a schoolmaster who concealed secret ciphers in sketches of butterfly markings. Results, obviously, had not been encouraging.
'England needs you, Beauregard,' insisted Ruthven. I need you.'
But does England need Lord Ruthven, he wondered.
Pamela seemed to catch his eye from the photograph. She would have expected him not to yield.
'Very well,' Beauregard said. 'I accept the position.'
Smith-Cumming clapped him on the back. Ruthven allowed himself a smile of relief.
'But there are conditions.'
'Oh, anything, anything,' waved the Prime Minister.
'We shall see,' said Beauregard.
49
Resolutions
She would let him go, but first he owed her a debt which she insisted he settle. In a hotel room in Calais, after Kate and Edwin had made love, she bled him lightly. His taste was different now. The red thirst inside him was burned out. He warmed her, made her strong again.
Lulled by her, Edwin lay in a daze as she snuggled next to him. She was flushed, her freckles like pinpricks on her breast.
She was entitled to a little love. For almost all her life she had been too busy or timid. This time, even if she let her soldier go back to his rector's daughter, she'd have him for a while. If Catriona was the woman Kate thought she was, she wouldn't mind. This was France. This was the war. Different rules applied.
