by Pat Kelleher
“It’s true. If William were to find out...”
“Ah. William. Your beloved brother. The Atkins boys. Always together, never apart. A bit different now, isn’t it? You haven’t got William to stand up for you now.”
“You know he’s bloody missing in action.”
“Yes, and more to the point, so did you,” hissed Ketch. Atkins felt warm spittle spray his cheek. “Always want to be seen to be a good man, the hero, don’t you, Atkins?”
“What is this, blackmail? Just what the hell is it you want, Ketch?”
“Me, Atkins? I want you to suffer.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“When John Bull Starts to Hit...”
BEFORE DAWN THEY prepared themselves for the attack. Atkins was still smarting from his confrontation with Ketch; he could barely bring himself to look at the man. The seedy little corporal revolted him almost as much as the damn Chatts did. The fact that he had intentions towards Flora just riled him even more. Ketch looked over and grinned at him, obviously enjoying his discomfort. Atkins responded with a sullen stare. The rest of the Section didn’t notice his change of mood; men acted differently before going over the top, they sank into themselves and resorted to prayer or their little rituals to marshal their own fears. Atkins took out his last letter from Flora, held it close to his face and inhaled, gently. He could still smell her perfume, although it was not as strong as it once was. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her lips on his cheek. No. No, he would not die today.
EVERSON WENT TO set up a forward OP to spy out the lie of the land, Mathers and Baxter accompanying him, Poilus scouting the way. They crawled on their bellies through the undergrowth towards the edge of the clearing. As the rising sun seeped over the trees it illuminated the top most towers of the Khungarrii edifice, bathing it in a rich crimson light that made its mineral deposits sparkle. Everson raised his field glasses and scanned the mound. The earthen structure rose hundreds of yards into the sky, towering over the cultivated area around it.
It looked as if the Khungarrii had built the edifice over generations, each generation repairing and maintaining as well as expanding the towering colony, buttressing the main thrust of the spire with additional towers of various height and thicknesses. The excavated earth used in its construction had bonded and toughened over the years to a sedimentary rock-like hardness. Everson could see no sign of structural defences although he did notice small holes at varying heights, but whether these were window or vents he could not be sure. Maybe a combination of both. A movement about two thirds of the way up—about fifty or sixty feet above the tree canopy—caught his eye. He watched for a second. Hanging from one of the vents was a piece of white cloth. As it fluttered in an updraft he could made out a small red cross. It was a nurse’s apron. “Good girl!” he muttered. That was one question answered. They were in there. However, fighting their way up inside two thirds of that thing wasn’t going to be easy. “Hobson,” he called softly.
The sergeant crawled up through the undergrowth with a grace that Everson never thought possible for a man his size. “Sir?”
“Prepare the men and tell Evans that we’ll need my little acquisition, will you?”
“Sir.”
Everson returned the field glasses to his eyes and refocused his view on the base of the edifice. A series of large midden piles lay slumped against the sides and, clinging precariously to their slopes, was a jumble of crude dwellings. These, Poilus told them, were Urman dwellings. Not part of the colony, they nevertheless sought whatever protection their proximity to it could afford them. The Khungarrii themselves did not concern themselves with these casteless Urmen unless they became too numerous or they affected the running of the colony. They lived on whatever detritus and chaff they could scavenge from the colony, scouring the midden heaps that accumulated like scree round certain portions of the edifice. Even at this early hour, Everson could see figures moving about, searching for food or other items they considered to be of value.
Over to one side of the vast clearing stood what looked like several small pyramids fifteen feet high or so, each composed of clay spheres, about four or five feet in diameter. Some of the pyramids appeared to be incomplete. “What are they?” he asked Poilus.
“Khungarrii dead. Each ball is a Khungarrii body encased in clay. They are left there for Skarra, the dung beetle, god of the underworld to roll down into his domain, where they undergo a final change into their spirit stage to join GarSuleth in the Sky World. I remember when I awoke in your camp, with the stench of the dead all around me and your great metal beast squatting there in the mud, at first I feared I’d been taken by Skarra, too.”
There was a tap on his shoulder and an urgent whisper: “Everson, there.” Baxter made him refocus his field glasses on the base of the edifice, on one of several huge bark-like doors. Boughs and trunks were embedded in the wall around the doorway, branches interwoven so they formed a jamb, roots thrusting into the ground. Out of the great openings began to spill Chatts, some bearing the electric lances and clay backpacks he’d heard about. They spread out across the clearing, behind them followed a mixture of Chatts and Urmen. Great elephantine larva-like beasts brought up the rear, bearing large panniers along their lengths.
Everson and the others crawled back to the camp and the waiting platoons, where they quickly mapped out the plan of attack. Everson noticed the Chatts avoided the dung ball pyramids of the dead and so, too, did the Urmen. If that was the case then they could use them as cover to get them in close to the edifice. From there they could head for the midden heaps which would provide cover for their break-in.
“I suspect we have a window of opportunity now before the workers start returning to the edifice. I’ll lead the assault with 1 Section,” he said. “I doubt that we’d win an all out pitched assault. Stealth is the only option. We’ll have to bypass those entrances; they’ll be too heavily guarded. We’ll make our own way in. Dixon, see that the rest of the party take up defensive positions on the outskirt of the clearing. Baxter, your Vickers and Lewis MGs I want set up to provide a field of fire to cover our escape from the edifice. Mathers, hold your tank in reserve. We may need it. And if Hepton gives you any trouble, you have my permission to stick his camera so far up him he’ll be able to use himself as a darkroom. If we’re not out in six hours don’t waste time attacking. Get back to the entrenchment. You’ll have a better chance of survival there. It’s easier to defend.”
“If it’s still there,” muttered Ketch.
Blood glanced at him blackly.
“Hobson, Ketch. You and your men are with me. Poilus, you’re coming too.” Everson had no doubts. He knew the men could do this. He had every faith in them. After all, hadn’t Hobson himself told him they were the best Black Hand Gang he knew? He raised a hand and the entire section melted into the undergrowth.
“b LOODY HELL,” SAID Atkins when he got his first full view of the edifice. “It’s not quite what I was expecting.” The scale of it tied a knot in his stomach. How many Chatts lived in there? Thousands? Tens of thousands?
“What were you expecting?” asked Half Pint.
“I don’t know; exotic palaces, gleaming towers, metal roads, automatons, flying machines. Not this. Not earth. Not dirt. We can do that. We have done that. Look at the way we’re living, we’re still bloody doing it.”
“Well, then you should feel right at bloody home, then shouldn’t you, Atkins,” sneered Ketch as he crawled up beside him.
Atkins’ mouth was dry. He took a swig from his canteen. The thought of attacking the Khungarrii edifice made his balls shrivel. He’d done trench clearance and even been down the mines dug under No Man’s Land as a guard, neither of which could prepare him for invading a giant insect nest.
He and William had poked twigs into wood ant nests as boys. He remembered Flora squealing, equal parts delight and horror, urging them on. Emboldened by her, they squatted down on their haunches and thrust their sticks further in with more and more savagery,
taking glee in watching the ants pour out frantically—just before the biting began as they swarmed over their clogs. William threw away his stick and danced around yelping and howling, much to Flora’s delight.
There were probably thousands of the revolting Chatts in there— and they’d do a damn sight more than just nip.
POILUS TAPPED EVERSON on the shoulder.
“We must move to keep down wind of the scentirrii.”
“Scentirrii?”
“Soldier Khungarrii, may Croatoan curse them!”
He hadn’t factored in the wind. He was getting slack. Even in the trenches, it was one of the main factors of a daily report. Gas attacks were dependant on wind strength and direction. Here, apparently, these considerations were just as important.
“You,” said Poilus to Atkins, thrusting a grey army blanket into his hands. “We will need to capture a Khungarrii to help us get into the edifice. As soon as I grab it you must throw the blanket over its head and wrap it tight, do you understand?”
No, he didn’t, but he knew when to follow an order. Atkins nodded. They watched and waited as the parties of workers and Urmen disbanded across the clearing, each appointed their daily tasks. Chatt soldiers accompanied the groups who walked off into the forest. As the Chatts drew near they heard the harsh, clicking language for the first time.
“Bloody hell,” hissed Mercy. “They’re only talking flamin’ iddyumpty. We should’ve brought a Signaller.”
Atkins noticed that the Urmen each had a mark on their foreheads, a blue rune of some description.
“Why don’t they make a break for it?” said Porgy.
“You’ve seen what’s out there. Where the hell would they go?” said Atkins.
“Better that than serving some chatting tyrant race of insects. Makes my blood boil, does that,” said Gutsy.
“Well maybe it just takes someone to show ’em eh? That’s why we’re here. Get our men back and just maybe teach these Urmen a thing or two about standing up to them bloody bug-eyed Bosche,” said Pot Shot.
One Chatt wandered too close, its curiosity piqued by some sign or spore. Poilus gave an almost imperceptible nod to Atkins, who gripped the edges of the blanket firmly and tensed his legs. The Chatt’s segmented antennae started twitching moments before Poilus leapt up from the undergrowth. He grabbed the creature from behind and Atkins tossed the blanket over its head, wrapping it round as Poilus sliced through its neck with a bayonet. The creature dropped with Poilus still on top of it. Atkins tensed, expecting a cry of alarm at the Chatt’s absence, but none came.
“They can raise the alarm by scent,” explained Poilus in a hushed tone as the men gathered around the kill. “It looks like we caught it in time though.” He carefully unwrapped the blanket from the creature’s head and handed it to Atkins. “Take it and bury it, carefully. We don’t want the scent getting caught on wind.”
Poilus then sliced his bayonet into the segmented abdomen of the dead Chatt, ripped down, pulled the wound open and exposed dark, swollen organs, sheathed in a slick wet cawl. This he tore from the body before easing his hand inside.
“Poilus, what the hell are you doing?” asked Everson.
“Looking for scent organ,” Poilus pulled his hand out, holding a soft translucent greenish-red bag that sagged over the end of his palm. “We need to smear ourselves with its contents. We need to smell like Khungarrii.”
“Oh Jesus!” groaned Porgy.
“He’s right,” said Pot Shot. “Many insects use scent as a primary sense. Those that don’t smell like them are attacked as enemies.”
“That’ll be you and the Workers’ Institute Library again, will it?” said Half Pint.
“What, you mean we cover ourselves with this stuff and we can just walk right in?” said Mercy.
“That seems about the size of it, Evans,” said Everson. “This may fool them but we don’t know for how long.”
Poilus tore a small hole in the organ, pushed his fingers in and brought them out, covered with a greenish grey slime that he proceeded to smear around his face and exposed skin. He passed the organ round. Everson took it, cleared his throat and dipped his fingers into the wet sac, smearing himself with the warm goo.
Once the men had anointed themselves with Khungarrii scent they set off around the edge of the clearing. Leaving the rest of the party in Sergeant Dixon’s capable hands, Everson, Poilus and 1 Section edged toward the pyramids of dead, each man hauling extra weapons and ammunition with which to arm the hostages while Mercy lugged a mysterious tarpaulin-covered object. From the cover of the shunned pyramids they then made their way, cautiously, to the midden piles and the Urman dwellings.
IT SEEMED THE dwellings slumped up against the side of the edifice were empty. There was no sign of any Urmen. Atkins knew if you scratched a living on this world, or any world for that matter, there was no time for idleness. It was obvious that the Chatts themselves never came here unless they had to, so it was an ideal place to make a discreet entrance. In the shadow of a huge midden: an accretion of dirt and gnawed animal bones, pottery shards, composting vegetation, dung, and rotting food, Gutsy and Pot Shot started work with a couple of pickaxes. Their points hammered into the hardened earth at the base of the edifice with very little initial effect, while the rest of the section kept watch nervously.
“Put your backs into it,” growled Hobson. Gutsy and Pot Shot swore and swung their picks, grunting vigorously with each impact in a practised alternating rhythm. After a few minutes, the surface began to pit and flake. Then it began to crumble. Blood stopped, panting, to wipe his brow.
“Good work. Change over,” said Everson.
The men changed over. It was no use doing all the fatigue work only to end up too knackered to fight once you’d actually breached the wall.
Atkins heard a clatter of refuse skittering down the far slope of the midden pile to their left and signalled the men to stop digging. Slowly, eight loaded Enfields converged toward the sound as something clambered towards them.
EVERSON LICKED HIS lips and cupped his pistol hand in his free palm to try to disguise the fact that it was shaking. He couldn’t let the men see. The clattering grew closer. He flexed his trigger finger and caught Hobson’s eye. The sergeant gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head and patted his trench club, ‘Little Bertha.’ The cruelly customised truncheon, its end studded with hobnails, had seen good service in many a trench raid. Everson felt a surge of disgust at the sight but thankfully lowered his revolver, realising that its report would give them away. He watched as the burly NCO tensed himself, his face compressed into a twisted snarl of hatred ready for whatever came over the brow of the slope. A small hand appeared over the lip and, a second later, there emerged a small boy, no more than six or seven years old. The Section let out a collective sigh. All except Gazette, who kept the boy in his sights.
FOR ATKINS IT was like looking at his own past. He’d been a boy such as this one, running round the streets of Broughtonthwaite, so far away now, in soot and grime and clogs. The boy was thin and covered with dirt and sores. He wore a tunic of animal skins and breathed heavily though his mouth, his nostrils plugged with dried green mucus. He continued to stare at the soldiers with a surly pout.
Poilus started to approach the boy, but Hobson raised his arms and stepped towards the child, snarling in the manner of an ogre. The boy took fright and ran off down the slope. “There, that’s got ’im.”
“You’re losing your touch, Sarn’t,” said Mercy, nodding his head downhill. The boy had stopped someway down and again stood staring at them resentfully before disappearing round a bluff.
After five minutes, Gazette and Atkins were up on pick-axe duty, taking over from Mercy and Half Pint.
“Just imagine it’s Ketch’s head,” said Mercy.
Atkins was glad of something to do. The nervous expectation of being caught by a swarm of gigantic insects was almost unbearable. It was much better to keep yourself occupied. As they continue
d to swing, the picks bit deeper and deeper into the wall. It was some twenty minutes and four feet before Porgy’s pick broke through to the other side. Hobson crouched by the opening and beckoned the men closer.
“Right,” he said in a low voice, “just like Trench Clearance. You know the routine.”
Except this was worse than trench clearance and Atkins knew it. He still had nightmares about the mines. Nevertheless, he swallowed hard and tried to put it to the back of his mind as, one by one, the Black Hand Gang entered the short tunnel. Blood took the lead as ordered, slithering through the hole and disappearing into the darkness. There was a brief, tense moment of silence before he hissed back the all clear. They passed through the extra rifles and grenades, boxes of ammunition and a couple of Lewis guns, before following.
Atkins looked back at the silent urchin, now watching them again, sitting atop a pile of bones. “See you,” he said with a wink and joined his pals in the Chatt-ridden gloom beyond.
HIGH ABOVE, IN the labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, Jeffries, having successfully passed the ritual, had spent the last few hours recovering from the ordeal. Thankfully, they had hauled the snivelling Padre back off to the gaol chamber. He had no idea what the chaplain had experienced but he did hope it wasn’t pleasant. As for himself, he only felt mildly disconcerted by his vision. He had no idea how long he had been under the influence of the oil; it could have been a couple of hours or a couple of days.
The Khungarrii saw the Rite as one of submission, of acceptance to the colony, but, on a more personal level, for him it had been one of control, of discipline. His will against theirs. And he had won.
His Great Working had taken months to prepare and years to perfect. Only a handful of people would have understood the significance of what he had done on the Somme, of what he had achieved or, more gallingly, attempted to achieve. Everything he had read, everything he had learned had led him to believe that the Old One would be summoned within the great pentacle laboriously calculated and etched on the battlefield; that the blood of thousands would have summoned him and confined him in a crucible warded by a circle of geographic proportions. When their transportation to this world had occurred in its stead, he’d felt confused and angry. Loath though he was to admit it, there had been several small flaws in his calculations. There was the fact that vital commentaries to the Ritual had been long since lost, and that the ritual itself was an Enochian translation of manuscripts that Voynich, the old antiquarian book dealer, had discovered and got rid of, not knowing what they were but rather fearing he knew what they were.
