by Pat Kelleher
“Very well. Get a leash on him. If Gordon is as hungry as I hope he is I think he might just lead us to our men.”
Atkins put a loop of string over its head.
“What,” said Sergeant Hobson at the sight of the creature, “is that?”
“I believe the men call it a Chatter, Sergeant,” said Everson. “It loves lice. Apparently, it thinks them quite a delicacy. And thanks to this little blighter and Evans’ entrepreneurial spirit none of us here is hitchy-koo anymore, so I’m hoping it’ll sniff out any lice in this place, and the only place I know we can find ’em is on our own great unwashed.”
Hobson gave a sceptical grunt before turning to Hopkiss and hissing, “You trying to tell me that’s what I paid me thruppence for, Hopkiss, to have that thing rooting through my smalls and shirts?”
“Aye, Sarn’t. Money well spent, I’d say,” said Porgy with a grin. “Ain’t scratched since ’ave yer?”
Hobson muttered unhappily until Poilus, who had been keeping watch, motioned them to keep quiet.
Gordon began scurrying about amongst their feet looking for his new favourite food and Atkins had to yank him back before they all got tangled up in his string leash.
Heads down, they stepped from the worker’s passage into the main tunnel as an eager little Gordon took the lead, tugging at the string in Atkins’ hand. Hobson rolled his eyes at the sight but took up point with him as he’d been ordered to.
The tunnels became lighter and airier. They must have been in an outer spiral because apertures high in the walls filtered bright beams of sunlight into the passageways. They passed several groups of Urmen repairing tunnels, perhaps after the recent tremors, without further incident but there was still no sign of the captives.
Everson watched expectantly as Gordon stopped below a vent shaft up in the wall and raised itself up on its hind legs, its forepaws scrabbling at the earthen wall, the nostrils of its thin wet whiskery snout flaring as it scented something. “Good boy!” praised Atkins, petting Gordon as if he were a prize ratter. The private peered at the opening above his head. “It runs upwards sir,” he reported. He listened intently for a moment then added, “I think I can hear voices.”
But were they Urman or Human? Everson ordered Hobson and Blood to move one of the weapon sleds across the curving passage to form a barricade behind which they knelt, pointing their Enfields into the tunnel behind them. Pot Shot and Porgy used the second sled as a mount for the Lewis Gun. Everson could see sweat beading on their foreheads. Wandering these tunnels wearing full kit and lugging an extra twenty or thirty pounds each was taking its toll.
He made his way through his men to the vent hole two or three feet above him. He removed his cap and gingerly tilted his head towards the vent, but could hear nothing above the curious pops and clicks that issued from it. “Hopkiss, give me a leg up will you?”
Hopkiss handed his rifle to Evans and linked the fingers of his hands together, palms up. Everson stepped onto the offered cradle and Atkins boosted him up so that he could get his head into the vent above.
He could feel a down draught cooling his face and, riding on the breeze, he heard the faint murmur of voices, human voices. If he could just… He put his hands up inside the vent, braced them on the walls and hauled himself into the mouth of the hole, until he was resting on his stomach, leaving his now flailing legs searching for purchase, which wasn’t so much found as offered. Hopkiss’ shoulders, he presumed. He used them to drive himself up into the shaft. With a cautionary shhh to his men below, he started to listen to the faint sounds filtering down from above.
In the warm, cramped confines of the shaft, he became aware of his own body odour. It smelt as if he hadn’t had a bath in weeks, which wasn’t that far from the truth. He began to wonder how long the scent from the dead Chatt would mask it. If, in fact, it still did. He lay still, held his breath and listened. There was a mutter of voices above, but he still couldn’t tell what they were saying. He had to know whether they were Urman or Human before he committed his men. He cupped his hand round his mouth and hollered up the vent. “This is Second Lieutenant Everson of ‘C’ Company. Hello? Are you all right?”
The seconds ticked by as he waited, then he heard a distant, but definite, “Yes, sir!”
“We’re on our way” he called back up. “Get ready to make a break for it!”
He was about to call down when Hobson’s urgent whisper reached him. “Stay where you are, sir!” Then he heard the unnerving chitter of Chatt mandibles below and the familiar sound of magazine cut-offs being flicked open and loading bolts being cycled back in readiness. Slowly he swivelled round in the narrow vent until he was on his back, looking down the length of his body to the end of the shaft and the top of Hopkiss’ steel helmet. He readjusted his pistol grip and waited.
“What do you here? Answer!” came the breathless glottal sound of a Chatt. “You block way.”
“Us?” he heard Hobson’s voice respond. “We’re just taking food to the prisoners.”
“Prihz nuhz.”
Everson braced himself. Judging by their use of language, these Chatts knew just enough to deal with Urmen on a basic level.
“You not Khungarrii.”
“We most certainly are.”
“Scent no.”
Well, that answered that question.
“You no Khungarrii.” There was an inhuman scream and a muttered interjection of “Oh, hell,” followed by the sound of a club smashed into something brittle and wet. Hard on its heels came a hissing and a pained yelp mixed with an electric crackle. A bluish white light flared briefly, illuminating the shaft.
“Damn!” said Everson, relaxing his body and allowing himself to slip from the vent.
He landed heavily on his feet, revolver ready, but the immediate problem had been dealt with. Two broad-headed Chatts, one with an electric lance, lay on the floor. One had its head staved in. The other had been stabbed through the chest. Private Blood was wiping his bayonet blade and Sergeant Hobson was hefting ‘Little Bertha.’ Corporal Ketch was clutching his arm.
“Damn thing spat acid at me,” he coughed. “It’s gone right through me bleedin’ stripes!”
“Reckon someone’s trying to tell you something, Ketch,” sniped Evans. Ketch glared back at him.
Everson didn’t need this right now. He needed them to be operating as a unit. He stepped in between the two soldiers.
“You all right, Corporal?” he said.
“I’ll live,” replied Ketch from between gritted teeth.
“Right. I don’t need anyone blinded by this acid spray. So let’s not take any chances. Gas helmets on.”
“Looks like our smell-o-flage has worn off, then sir,” said Hopkiss in a chirpy assessment of the situation, rummaging in his canvas bag for the gas hood.
“So it would seem, Hopkiss.”
“We must move,” urged Poilus. “They will have sent out an alarm scent warning the rest of the colony. More scentirrii will be here soon.”
“We’ve lost the element of surprise, then,” said Everson.
It was bound to happen. Their luck wouldn’t hold forever. Mind you, they’d got further than he’d thought. Knowing they didn’t have long before more Chatts turned up he wanted to push on as quickly as possible.
“This is it,” he said. “Everybody ready?” There were grunts of assent from under the gas hoods as the men moved off. Everson rolled his gas hood down over his face, tucked it into his shirt collar, replaced his cap and took a place at the front with Poilus, behind Hobson and Atkins as Gordon sniffed out the way. Blood and Ketch followed pulling the weapons sleds while Evans, Nicholls, and their Flammenwerfer brought up the rear with Otterthwaite, Jellicoe and Hopkiss.
They pushed on up the gently spiralling passage. They’d only just managed to build up a head of steam when the first soldier Chatts appeared from a side passage to the left. Evans nodded and Half Pint opened the valve. A brief spurt of fire sprayed out of the Flammerwerfe
r’s nozzle, like Satan’s own piss. The Chatts began to squeal and thrash about, fire leaping high and blackening the tunnel walls. There was a sickening heavy smell like burnt hair.
“Passage,” shouted Sergeant Hobson, indicating with his right arm as they advanced past the dark open maw of a side tunnel.
Blood, pulling a sled, pulled the pin on a Mills bomb, counted to three and tossed it into the shadows. There was a brief rattle of metal on clay then the tunnel shook and bloomed with a fiery light as the explosion spat hot shrapnel through the enclosed space, eliciting startled inhuman shrieks.
Everson heard the stutter of rapid fire as Hopkiss fired back down the tunnel. He glanced back to see a squad of Chatt soldiers retreating round the curve of the passageway. Jellicoe pulled the pin from a grenade and rolled it, clattering, down the passage. It exploded round the corner bringing baked earth crashing down.
The Chatts’ weapons—spears, some form of swords, their acid sprays and electric lances—were all close range. If they could keep the damned things at bay, they may just have a chance. With all their firepower though, Everson briefly wondered if they’d gone over the top.
JEFFRIES GAZED AT the sigils on the parchment as one might at the photograph of a far away sweetheart.
“You recognise something?” asked Chandar.
“Hmm?” said Jeffries. He had to remember that this was a creature that had spent a good deal of time around Urmen. More so than its companions. It had learnt to mimic behaviour and gestures to gain confidences. He had done such things himself. It was trying to ingratiate itself. “What? No,” he added almost absent-mindedly. This was important, but he didn’t want Chandar to know how important.
The room shook. Dust showered gently from the domed ceiling.
“What was that?” asked Jeffries.
“A tremor. Continue.”
But Jeffries was distracted now. He made out the faint faraway report of rifle fire.
Damn. Not now, bloody idiots. They’ll ruin everything. That damn boy-scout, Everson!
The door shrivelled back and Rhengar and two of its scentirrii entered the chamber, pointing their electric lances at Jeffries and herding him against the wall, from where he could now only eye the map covetously.
Their commander hissed and chattered frantically at Chandar, its mouthparts and mandibles moving rapidly. Chandar took whatever comments the soldier was spewing at him, and then turned to Jeffries.
“Your herd has invaded the colony,” said Chandar. “Rhengar thinks you have broken your agreement.”
“No!” said Jeffries emphatically, shaking his head, arms wide. “This is not my doing.”
Chandar turned back to Rhengar, slipping into its own language of hisses and clicks as a heated exchange developed. Eventually, Rhengar rounded on Chandar, emitting a long hiss with open mandibles and rose up on its powerful legs even as Chandar assumed a position of submission. Whatever argument Chandar was trying to put forward, it had just lost. Jeffries cursed silently.
“You must go with them,” said Chandar.
“If you attempt to escape we will hurt you,” Rhengar made sure to say in English.
Jeffries got the message. Rhengar strode off, its scentirrii shepherding him along, their lances never wavering from his body.
As he was led away, Jeffries turned and called back to Chandar who stood in the entrance to the artefact chamber.
“It’s a mistake. Let me talk to my men, Chandar. I can get them to stop the attack. It’s all an awful mistake. Believe me!”
But Chandar didn’t move and Jeffries lost sight of the creature as the guards urged him relentlessly on.
His mind raced. If Everson’s damn fool rescue failed then there was no doubt that Sirigar creature would have them all culled. If the rescue did succeed, then he lost access to the map and those artefacts. He felt the stolen pistol in his waistband, but with electrical lances against his back, he doubted he could reach it in time. He needed that map. He felt sure it was the answer to all, well, many of his questions.
If they were stuck here on this world with no way home then he didn’t need to be hampered with several hundred stranded soldiers. He could abandon them to their fate. They had served their purpose and delivered him this far. It was clear now that his destiny lay in a different direction, and that pointed to Croatoan once more.
“This wasn’t my idea, you know,” he said to Rhengar’s back as the scentirrii frogmarched him back the way he had come; past the trench equipment, through the alchemical and library chambers towards the temple. Dhuyumirrii and their acolytes scurried about as he was escorted across the main temple chamber and out of the ornate entrance on the large thoroughfare tunnel. Masses of Chatts moved along it in well-ordered ranks, the only allowance to chaos was the haste with which they were moving. He assumed that it was not the weight of written law that made them obey but rather instructional semiochemicals lacing the atmosphere, filtered through the natural air conditioning of the nest, impelling them to comply.
The few Urmen that were allowed access to this level were directed down side passages or cloister tunnels by scentirrii that took up positions to direct traffic flow. A defence plan was being put into operation.
A squad of scentirrii ran down past them, their powerful legs barely containing their springing step in the confines of the tunnel. Then he heard the faint but recognisable judder of a Lewis gun and the dull, muffled thud of an explosion reverberated through his feet.
Great. What the hell else could possibly go wrong?
EDITH BELL LOOKED blearily around the chamber. The slumped Tommies around her were beginning to stir. The feeling of rapture was wearing off. Edith, in her naivety, could only compare it to that brief, special moment upon waking in the warmth of one’s bed, when one is dozily blissful, before the cares of the day encroach and sully the transitory moment of peace. Some soldiers were already sitting with their heads in their hands, wondering what the hell had happened. For some, coming down from the drug-induced euphoria left them feeling depressed and melancholic. Others still wore blissfully stupid smiles. Captain Grantham sat staring into space. He was lost in his own thoughts and they didn’t seem to be happy ones.
Napoo, who seemed to have recovered faster than they had, was already moving from one soldier to another, slapping them to bring them round.
“Yes, thank you, Napoo. That will be enough of that,” said Sister Fenton, who was already standing, if a little shakily, but determined to show that she would let no insect muddle her mind.
“But the Khungarrii dhuyumirrii’s blessing is strong,” he said, unused to having his behaviour challenged.
“Yes, some sort of natural opiate, no doubt,” said Sister Fenton. She smoothed out her blue nurse’s uniform in an attempt to recover her authority and decorum, although her apron now hung out of the garderobe as a makeshift signal.
“I beg your pardon, Sister?” said Edith.
“The insect sprayed us with some sort of opiate, hoping to keep us docile and subservient. Nurse Bell, Abbott, start checking the men, if you would. Some may have had an adverse reaction.”
Edith got unsteadily to her feet and had to brace herself against the wall as a brief wave of nausea washed over her, spots dancing before her eyes.
“Give a gel a hand,” groaned Abbott. Edith clasped her arm and pulled. There was a groan as Nellie raised herself up, smoothed out her ankle-length khaki dress and turned to her with an irritatingly chirpy smile. “Don’t mind me, Edi. I’ve had worse hangovers down the Estaminet in Sans German. Mind you some of these boys don’t look as if they’ve handled it very well.”
The chamber was filling with groans and sighs as the men came down from their non-consensual high.
Edith spotted the padre sat by the door, his shoulders slumped. She hadn’t noticed him being returned to the chamber, but something terrible must have happened to reduce him to this state.
“Padre, what’s the matter. Where’s Lieutenant Jeffries?”
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The army chaplain lifted his head, his eyes rheumy and red-rimmed, his pupils dilated.
“What have they done to you?”
“Crushed my faith,” he said, shaking his head despondently. “Wherever we are, we are far from God’s sight.”
Edith shook her head, as if that would somehow flush out the residual effects of the insect’s spray. There was something she had been trying to remember, but it was a hollow in her mind. What the deuce was it?
Suddenly Napoo, stood below the air ventilation hole with his head cocked, urged them all into silence, his keen native senses straining to hear something. Then others heard it, too.
“This is Second Lieutenant Everson. C Company. Hello?” said a voice drifting from the vent.
“Give me a leg up,” said one of the soldiers. A couple of his companions boosted him up towards the vent. “Sounds like someone said he’s Lieutenant Everson,” he said.
“Bloody hell, man, well shout back! It could be a rescue party.”
“What?”
“Get down. Let me,” The other man was dropped unceremoniously while a corporal was boosted up. He grasped the lip of the vent and called down.
“Are you all right?” the voice called from below.
“Yes, sir!”
“We’re on our way. Get ready to make a break for it!”
Napoo went to the door and tensed, waiting expectantly. Several men joined him.
“Captain,” said Sister Fenton sharply, addressing Grantham. “Captain, it appears your men are here to rescue us.”
“Hmm, what?” said Grantham.
“Captain,” said Sister Fenton sharply. “You do not want to let your men down. They are looking to you to lead them. Whether you feel you can or not, it is your duty.”
Grantham looked up at her as if something she said had reached him.
Some of the men, too, had got their dander up. Having heard the voice of rescue, they were up for taking a pop at the blasted Chatts. It was amazing how they rallied, Edith thought. They endured so much misery and suffering but their spirit, though dampened, was never truly extinguished and it took the merest spark to renew it. So it was she found herself swept up in their cheery confidence and for a brief, exhilarating moment she couldn’t help but believe that everything was going to be all right.
