Immortal Earth (Vampires For Earth Book 1) (3 page)

President Mortterra’s aide signaled him from the side of the stage.
It’s time.

“And so, my fellow citizens, my prayers will be with you on
your
journey, and I will carry all of you in my heart, as I take my leave tonight. May the blessings of God be upon all of you, and may God continue to bless the great AmEur Alliance.”

Mortterra stepped back from the podium and moved slowly across the stage, basking in the applause and waving sporadically to faceless members of his flock in the more distant rows. It bothered him that everyone in this audience would be dead in the next few years, as what remained of the global food supply dried up … it bothered him, but he couldn’t prevent it. President Mortterra was a military man, and any veteran would agree that, when you’re going to lose, and your army can’t retreat quickly enough to save their own lives, you’ve at least got to evacuate your general.

Mortterra was that general, and tonight he would ride off into the sunset.

The President turned, finally, toward Dr. Isidora Nizienko, and motioned for her to bring the three Immortals forward.

Afon stood first, locking his ice blue eyes onto President Mortterra, and then he turned to Nanook and Jian, who both rose after his unspoken signal to them. Isi led the way out of the aisle they were sitting in, and she was the first to mount the stairs to the stage. She was followed closely by the three Immortals, and then her brother Fyodor was the last to ascend the stage.

The five of them moved quickly to the open door of the Recycler, pushed along by a small group of heavily armed AmEur Alliance soldiers. Standing by the side of the Immortal’s execution chamber was Isi’s assistant, George Murphy. Holding a microphone, he was still displaying the nervous excitement he had showed at the beginning of Mortterra’s speech, but he was perfectly following the directions that Isi had given him earlier … even speaking, word for word, the lines that she had suggested he use.

“Dr. Nizienko, the Recycler is fully operational and is within all of the pre-execution parameters,” George said. “Are the Immortals ready, or do they have any last words?”

Isi allowed her face to show the full range of emotions that she would be experiencing if Afon were actually about to die. The most dangerous part of her plan would take place in the next few moments, and her words had to be believable.

With tears welling in her eyes, Isi took the microphone from George and said, “The Immortals have nothing to say that any of you here tonight would be capable of truly hearing. They won’t waste their words on you, but I will.”

Red in the face, Isi pointed a finger at President Mortterra and continued, “Shame on you!”

Then, sweeping her hand to encompass the whole audience in the auditorium, Isi almost screamed, “Shame on all of you! These men are not a threat to you; they are your fellow human beings. They volunteered to become what they are in order to save you, and now you’re going to kill them for it?”

Looking out into the audience, Isi met the eyes of her fellow doctors and scientists and said, “Shame on all of us. If you’re going to murder them, you’re going to have to kill me too.”

In one swift motion, Isi reached out and grabbed the handcuffs from her brother Fyodor’s belt. She snapped one cuff around her own wrist, and quickly enclosed Afon’s wrist with the other.

A gasp rumbled through the audience, a wave of thunder and lightning, looking for a direction to strike. From the back of the crowd, a young man yelled, “Who cares? I say let’s kill the bitch too!”

The rest of the auditorium joined in, chanting, “Kill them all. Kill them all.”

A bloodthirsty crowd was exactly what Isi had been hoping for. People that show up expecting to see an execution can usually be relied upon to demand one. The only possible danger to her plan now was President Mortterra, who had resumed his position behind the podium, and was motioning to the audience for silence.

“I’m sure that many of Dr. Nizienko’s colleagues, in this room tonight,” Ignis Mortterra said, “are aware of the special relationship that she has with one of the Immortals, Afon Solovyov. And, I think that all of us can understand how the heart can sometimes stand in the way of logic … but tonight is not about the fate of three men and one woman, we are gathered here to save the whole of the world. And I, as your President, do not intend to travel back in time, and leave you tonight, without first removing the threat that exists in our midst. So, Dr. Nizienko, if you choose to join these men in death, I will not stand in your way, but the three potential murderers, that you call Immortals, will be done away with tonight.”

President Mortterra took a step back from the podium, washed his hands of Isi’s fate, and turned her over to the crowd that was shouting for blood. Mortterra signaled the guards to escort Isi and the Immortals into the Recycler.

Jian Hu was the first to step up and stand next to the machine, followed closely by Nanook K’eyush. Afon Solovyov was not so quick to move, since he had to make this show as dramatic and believable as Isi had. Handcuffed to Isi’s side, Afon lifted his free hand to brush the light blonde hairs that had come loose from Isi’s bun, back behind her ear. His hand lingered on her cheekbone and her small beauty mark there, a place he had once told her he could spend forever tracing with his lips.

“You don’t have to do this, you know …” Afon murmured.

There was so much more behind his words than the chivalrous comment deliberately caught on microphone, loud enough for the audience to hear. If their plan didn’t work, Isi really would die trying to save Afon’s life. Isi’s look, in response, let him know that there was no other choice.

Afon returned to the script that Isi had crafted. He lifted Isi’s free hand to his lips and said, “You should save yourself, my love.”

Isi gripped his hand with hers and firmly, but sadly, shook her head no.

George Murphy knew that Afon’s words were his cue to act. George’s pale hands trembled, and his red curls were stuck to the sweat on his forehead, but he did his duty and motioned for Isi and the three Immortals to step into the Recycler.

Jian moved first, raising his foot over the edge of the submarine like door to the machine. Not one of his shiny, black, hairs was out of place and, despite his small stature, his precise steps showed the latent power of a long-serving military man. Nanook followed closely behind Jian, his massive shoulders slumped forward in a display for the audience of how utterly defeated and weak he was.

He could’ve been an actor,
Afon thought and smiled, but then quickly forced himself to turn his smile into a grimace.
Don’t get out of role now; this is it.
Afon solemnly nodded at George Murphy, stepped into the Recycler, and turned to wait for Isi, who was still handcuffed to him.

Isi smiled at George and reached out to shake his sweaty hand with her free one. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Murphy,” Isi said. “The lab will be in your hands now … take care of her for me, okay?”

George’s sweat started to mix with authentic tears that he didn’t need any coaching, or script, to produce. No matter what happened now, whether she lived or died, George Murphy knew that he would never see Isi again.

He spoke their pre-arranged farewell words, “I will, and … and you’ll be missed, Dr. Nizienko.”

Isi smiled at George and turned away to step into the Recycler. She nodded at Afon –
Everything is ready.
As soon as George called her doctor, instead of Isi, she knew that George had completed his work.

Over the past few days, George Murphy had stripped off the psychedelic paint design on the outside of the Infinmachine, which made it look identical to the Recycler. Then he had enlisted the help of an artist friend who opposed the Mortterra dictatorship as much as he did, and together they had repainted the Recycler in the same design that had previously adorned the Infinmachine.

George had switched the machines, and the door his allies had just stepped through was not a portal leading to certain death … Isi and the Immortals had entered the Infinmachine.

Fyodor Nizienko stepped into his pre-appointed place and started to push the door shut to the disguised Infinmachine. The audience let out a round of applause and catcalls; the execution was about to happen. Once the door to the machine was fully closed, the observers assumed it would be like the noose being tied onto a condemned mans neck.

Before he pushed the door all the way closed, Fyodor met Isi’s eyes and said, “Godspeed, my sister.”

Fyodor saluted her and the three Immortals, closed the door, tightened the latch on the outside, and stepped back as George Murphy flipped the switch activating the machine.

SIX

April 22, 1888

London, England

Nanook K’eyush’s head was pounding. The warmth of a sunlight he hadn’t felt in five years was heating his cheeks, and he moved his hand to shield his eyes before he opened them.

“What the …”

Nanook could barely get the words out before the incessant clanging of a bell finally registered to him. He looked up to see a boxy rectangular object barreling toward him on some kind of train tracks. Hanging off of the side of the strange object was a man in uniform, ringing a bell and yelling something at Nanook.

Nanook rolled out of the small trains path, and onto a pair of muddy boots.

“Excuse me,” Nanook muttered, and pushed himself up and onto his knees. Then he tried to stand. The man in the muddy boots reached down to grab Nanook by the shoulders, and helped to steady him while he got to his feet.

It must’ve worked.
Nanook looked at the man who had come to his aid and knew, instantly, that he was no longer in Greenland, and it was definitely not 2112 anymore.
How far back did we go?

The man Nanook had rolled into was wearing a dark brown vest, and a pair of trousers that covered the aforementioned boots. His boots were encrusted with mud from the wet ground, kicked up by the animals that were pulling carts that carried people.
Horses?
Nanook couldn’t believe his eyes, horses had become extinct right after he was born.
How far back did Isi take us? And where the hell is she? Where are Afon and Jian?

Standing up to his full height, Nanook turned wildly around, searching the dirt street for his fellow travelers.

“Best to relax now, chap,” the man said to Nanook. “I’ve gotten a bit sodden myself, on occasion. You’ll be needing to get home now, and sleep this one off.” He reached up to pat Nanook on the shoulder and said, “There’s a pub just down the way. The horse car should be stopping there, on the hour, and if you’ve got the fare, that would be a quick way home for ye, lad.”

The man pulled out a gold watch, attached to a chain, from his vest pocket, and flipped it open. “It’s a quarter past two now, so you’ll be waiting a spot. What say I join you for a bit of lunch?” the man said, and reached out to shake Nanook’s hand. “Harland Fergusson,” he introduced himself, and waited expectantly.

Nanook couldn’t see Afon, Isi, or Jian anywhere on the street, and he figured the pub might be as good a place as any to begin searching for them. “And I am Nanook K’eyush,” he said, as he shook Harland’s outstretched hand. “Lunch would probably be the best plan for me now; you lead the way, sir.”

Harland started off down the road, directing a constant stream of chatter at Nanook the whole way.

“I was beginning to wonder if you even spoke the Queen’s English, my good man. Your head must just be a bit foggy still, from the drink … you are from India, if I’ve guessed correctly? I can always spot a man from one of our colonies. Bombay, if I’m not mistaken? I do sorely hope to visit that land one day … perhaps you could share some stories over lunch? I saw one of your elephants at the zoo, just last spring, and it must be such a magnificently interesting life. A bit primitive for my tastes, to be sure, but a holiday there wouldn’t be quite so awful, I suppose.

Nanook wasn’t sure how to respond to his newfound tour guide.
Certainly not the truth,
he thought, and chuckled to himself.
Nope, not from India, India is completely underwater, oh … and England is drowned too, chap. Now, as for lunch, would you care to donate some blood, Mr. Fergusson?

Nanook smiled at Harland and said, “India is definitely a land of many mysterious wonders.”

Isi had warned all three of the Immortals not to reveal anything to any one they met in the past. If the four of them were to become separated, Isi’s game plan allowed for them to have some minimal contact with people in order to search for each other, but that was all.

Harland was still chattering away, as he held the door to the tavern open for Nanook.

“You know,” said Harland, “you have got to be the largest Indian that I have ever seen! I mean no offense, of course, but you are quite the remarkable specimen, Mr. K’eyush.”

Nanook smiled and nodded politely at Harland, in response, while he scanned the small post-lunch crowd in the bar for any sign of Isi, Afon, or Jian. He couldn’t see them, but he couldn’t really see much at all. The pub was a haze of pipe smoke, and the stench of the place almost overwhelmed Nanook.

He could tell that Harland had taken him to one of the pubs frequented by the more well off, but still working, citizens of London, just by the way people were dressed. All of the clientele were men, and all were wearing their own variations of a suit. All dark and drab, some enhanced by vests and bowler hats; some inhaled off of a pipe, while others ingested massive quantities of some meat that smelled like liver, but all contributed their own unique stench that mingled with the horse droppings and refuse of the street outside, and made the bile rise at the back of Nanook’s throat.

“Are you all right then, Mr. K’eyush?” Harland asked, and grabbed Nanook around the arm to settle him down on a stool in front of the bar. “I think you’ll be needing a spot of the poison from the snake that bit ye,” Harland said, and held two fingers up to the barkeep.

The young man behind the bar was wearing suspenders and a bowtie, a current fashion that Nanook had only seen pictures of in the past. The bartender set down two glasses of a murky, caramel liquid in front of Nanook and Harland.

“Two Highland Scotches, on me, Mr. Fergusson,” the bartender said. He winked, and wiped his hand on the apron around his waist before he extended it to Nanook. “Eddie Brown, at your service sir,” the bartender said, while he shook Nanook’s hand.

“Nanook K’eyush, and thank you for the drink, my friend,” Nanook responded genuinely. Sure, he shouldn’t drink too much before he found Isi, Afon, and Jian, but one little Scotch wouldn’t kill him, and it might even help him to wrap his brain around the past that he was currently living in.

The first drop of the strong liquor that passed Nanook’s lips started a tingling sensation that spread through him, and filled his body with warmth. The alcohol also tickled a craving for the liquid that one part of him truly wanted. Nanook needed blood, and he knew that he had to satisfy the nanobots inside of him … soon.

But where do I go to get blood here? Whatever time Isi has sent us to, I doubt that there are any hospitals, or laboratories, with blood in storage; no meals ready to eat for me, in this place … Oh God, am I really going to have to kill someone? Maybe an animal could suffice …

Nanook’s thoughts were interrupted by a tug on his arm.

“Are you still with us, Mr. K’eyush?” Harland said, his voice rising with concern.

Nanook nodded, and said, “I’m fine, thank you Mr. Fergusson, it has just been quite awhile since I have tasted a decent Scotch.”

Like a good bartender, Eddie Brown jumped to Nanook’s rescue with a change of subject. “Speaking of good Scotch, where has your friend Mr. Stoker been lately, Harland? Our stock of the Glenlivet is positively overflowing, in his absence.”

Harland Fergusson laughed, and turned his attention away from Nanook, to respond to the bartender. “Bram has been a scarce presence lately, Eddie. I think the wife is keeping him under lock and key. Either that, or he’s got himself wrapped up in his writing again. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I was actually planning to stop by his flat later today, and check in on him.”

“Please send him my best regards, Mr. Fergusson,” the bartender said.

“Will do, Eddie,” Harland said. “I’m quite sure I’ll have to introduce Bram to Mr. K’eyush, don’t you think? Nanook here has come all the way from India, and good old Bram will probably want to question him incessantly, in his charming way, of course.”

“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Fergusson,” the bartender said. “Next to a good Scotch, there’s nothing Bram Stoker enjoys more than a good story.”

Harland laughed and nodded in agreement, but turned his attention back to Nanook, and continued to play the good host.

“So, do tell us how you found your way to Britain, Mr. K’eyush,” Harland said. “When I encountered you in the street, it looked as if you’d never even seen a trolley before, so I imagine that you must be a very recent arrival?”

Just as Nanook started to search his brain for some form of believable, but false, reply, a hand grasped his shoulder from behind. He turned around on his barstool and laughed with relief and mirth at the absurd sight of his friend Afon, dressed up like a blond Charlie Chaplin in a bowler hat, and efficaciously carrying a cane. Worse still was Isi, done up in some Victorian dress that looked impossible to walk around in, complicated even more by the pair of tightly tied, high-heeled boots in which she was precariously perched. Jian seemed to have gotten off easy, costume-wise, and stood quietly behind Isi and Afon, wearing a simple black suit.

“Oh thank God,” Nanook said, and then remembered his new friend and tour guide, “um, Mr. Fergusson, let me introduce you to my …”

Isi spoke quickly to cut Nanook off. “Mr. Fergusson, is it? I thank you sir, for having tracked down my missing manservant. My husband, Count Solovyov, and I have just arrived from Russia to set up our household here, in London, and some of our staff seem to have gotten quite disoriented in the process.”

Isi stopped and smiled at Harland, “I hope this one hasn’t been of any trouble to you,” she said, nodding in Nanook’s direction.

“Oh, no trouble at all, my dear lady,” Harland said, and rose from his bar stool to bow and kiss Isi’s hand. “I was going to have Mr. K’eyush regale me with some of his stories of life back in his native India but, what with you being a Russian Countess and all, Madame Solovyov, I am quite sure that I’d rather listen to you,” Harland said with a wink.

“You are too kind, Mr. Fergusson,” Isi said, “but I am afraid we will have to be taking our leave of you now. We have some duties to attend to before dark, not least of which is finding some appropriate clothing for our staff, especially Mr. K’eyush. I am sorry, by the way, that you had to be seen with our Indian in his bedclothes, Mr. Fergusson,” Isi laughed, and pointedly looked at Nanook.

Nanook K’eyush was wearing the same clothes that he’d had on when he entered the Infinmachine, just a few hours before. Basic blue hospital scrubs had been his daily attire since he had joined the Immortality Project five years ago. Nanook quickly realized that in 1888, his clothes and the material that they were made from, combined with his large and dark skinned stature, made him stand out and seem to be not of this world.

Harland joined in with Isi’s laughter and said, “Ah, and I thought the young man was just showing off some new fashion from Bombay.” Harland rested his hand on Nanook’s shoulder and continued, “He’s not a bad lad at all, Countess Solovyov, he’s just getting used to a new country … as are all of you, I suppose. It does occur to me that perhaps I could show you and Mr. K’eyush to the nearest tailor’s shop? I am not so sure that you’ll be able to find something, in his considerable size, right off of the rack.”

Isi smoothed her dress, clasped her hands together tightly in front of her, and said, “Oh, I’m sure that if you’ll be kind enough to just point the way for us, we will manage to make our own journey without being any further encumbrance to you, Mr. Fergusson.”

Harland’s cheeks flushed, and he bowed to Isi. “I assure you, it is no trouble to me at all, my dear Countess. Any assistance that I can provide to such a distinguished couple from the East, is my pleasure Madame.”

Henry turned and bowed to Afon, “Harland Fergusson, at your service, sir.”

Afon removed his hat and slowly nodded at Harland, “I am Count Solovyov, and I thank you for your kind offer of help, Mr. Fergusson. We will follow you to the tailor’s, whenever you are ready, my friend.”

Afon smiled at Harland, but kept his lips tightly shut. He could feel his fangs almost throbbing with hunger. The trip in the Infinmachine had lasted only seconds, but seemed to have drained his energy drastically. He felt like he had not been fed in days, and the odor of the pub, while nauseating, was infused with the scent of so many humans that Afon’s mouth was watering. He had never felt such a primal urge. The sterile air of the laboratory on Thule Airbase, and the steady supply of donated blood there, had allowed Afon to never feel the murderous impulses that some of the other participants in Project Immortality had felt … until now.

We’ve got to get out of here,
Afon thought, and looked at Isi.

Isi caught the meaning of Afon’s glance, and lightly touched Harland on the elbow. “Yes, Mr. Fergusson, do lead the way,” Isi said. “At your convenience, of course.”

Harland was practically beaming at the attention. He signaled to the bartender that he would take care of his tab later, and quickly walked to the door of the pub, waving his hand for the Count and Countess to follow him. Nanook and Jian trailed behind, and attempted to show the deference required from the servants that they were both pretending to be.

Harland held the door for all of them, and then scurried ahead to walk beside Isi.

“There’s a tailor’s just a spot up this way, Countess,” Harland said. “Do you think you’ll be needing some things for yourself, as well? There’s a lady’s shop across the street from the tailor’s that we are headed to. Of course, it may not be quite of the caliber that I am sure you’re used to… How wonderful that you are from Russia, if I may say so. I have always hoped to travel on the Orient Express through your lands … and how exciting that your household help are so exotic themselves, Countess. An Indian and a Chinaman, just wonderful, daring really. Though your poor Chinaman seems not to know the language yet, or is he a mute? Such sad afflictions are all too common in the less developed countries … Oh! Here we are!”