No Man's World: Omnibus

by Pat Kelleher

  Sirigar sank into a crouch. The evidence of its treachery was inescapable, permeating the very air around it.

  Rhengar stepped from the shadows, and at some chemical command, the scentirrii seized Sirigar and led it away.

  It was only once Chandar had the Shura’s assent and had been instated as liya-dhuyumirri, the position held by Sirigar, that it allowed Edith to escort it back to the chamber to treat its wounds once again.

  “What will happen now?” she asked.

  “Now? The Tohmii will uphold their end of the bargain. They have been absolved. A chemical decree has already been disseminated throughout Khungarr. This view will become the established view. This will always have been the view.”

  THE THREE KHUNGARRII battlepillars had been decorated with lengths of coloured, scented silk and bore a multitude of silk pennants. There was an air of pilgrimage about the procession as it headed to the Pennines’ camp, accompanied by grating dhuyumirrii chants and the beating of chest carapaces.

  The swaying of the battlepillar’s howdah unsettled Edith’s stomach and she grasped the sides to steady herself as it rocked from side to side. Despite the little fluttering of girlish glee, Edith had to keep reminding herself that none of this was for her benefit, favoured by the Khungarrii Queen as she might be. No, this was in celebration of the long-lost ancient texts in the Pennines’ possession, which would now be returned to the care of the Ones. It was part of the agreement made with Everson, in return for some kind of Treaty between the Pennines and the Khungarrii. She looked out happily across the veldt. She hadn’t felt this relaxed since they had come to the planet. For once, the alien sun was shining and all seemed right with this world.

  THE PADRE DIDN’T feel quite so ebullient. Thoughts of his vision churned away at his guts like three-day-old army stew. Like the men, he knew that being out of the line was temporary. At some point, courage or not, they would march back up the line towards the mud, shelling and shooting. He, too, knew that the terrors of his vision, and the choice he would have to make, were still waiting for him out there somewhere. But now, for Nurse Bell’s sake, he smiled and allowed himself to be distracted.

  TULLIVER’S SOPWITH SWOOPED low over them several times in their progress across the veldt, adding to the carnival atmosphere with its rolls and loops.

  Delighted, Edith leaned out of the howdah and waved joyfully at the flying machine as it performed its daring aerobatics.

  Beside her, Chandar watched the aeroplane with keen interest...

  LIEUTENANT PALMER STOOD on the observation platform of the old Poulet farmhouse. He handed the binoculars to Sergeant Hobson, who stood beside him. “What do you make of it, Sergeant?”

  Hobson peered through the glasses at the approaching procession. “A white flag of truce. I can’t tell if the padre or Nurse Bell are there.”

  The battlepillars didn’t present a huge threat. The Machine Gun Section could cut them down before the Chatts came within the range of their own electric lances.

  Still, their appearance sent a ripple of unease along the line, men shuffling nervously on the firesteps. But this was a delicate time; Palmer didn’t need nervous or trigger-happy troops. Those not on sentry duty were confined to the support and reserve trenches. Nobody wanted an incident.

  The battlepillars stopped several hundred yards beyond the wireweed, along the line of the old Khungarrii siege, and upwind of the poppies that spread like a bloodstain across the scorched cordon sanitaire.

  “Learnt their lesson, then?” said Hobson. “Bloody good job, too.”

  “Quite,” said Palmer.

  The white pennant flapped and snapped above the lead battlepillar as it chewed the tube grass.

  Lieutenant Palmer, Sergeant Hobson and a small party walked out to meet them under a white flag of their own. Nervous, Palmer glanced back at the lines, like an unconfident swimmer too far from shore.

  A faraway muffled cry rang out from the trenches and a shot cracked across the veldt, echoing off the hillsides.

  There were angry chitterings and hissings from the Chatts.

  Several arcs of blue-white lightning leapt from electric lances towards the Fusilier party.

  Palmer threw himself down on the ground and drew his Webley. Hobson hit the dirt beside him.

  “What the hell’s going on, Sergeant?” he yelled, picking himself up. “The men had strict orders!”

  There was a deep, wet roar and a woman’s scream. More shots. Roars. The keening cry of injured scentirrii. The brief buzzing crackle of electric lances.

  Palmer froze as several hundred pounds of fur, muscle, fangs and claws leapt out of the tube grass at him.

  A bright, white-blue, erratic bolt of lightning arced through the air, blasting the animal, earthing through it as it crashed gracelessly to the ground with a dull thud and a snapping of bone. The smell of charred meat, burnt fur and voided bowels filled Palmer’s nostrils.

  Hell hounds. They must have been stalking the battlepillars.

  Rolling away from the smouldering corpse, Palmer got to his feet, seeking another target. He turned and emptied his revolver into another hell hound as it slunk through the tube grass toward the Chatt party.

  By the time the gunshots and electric bolts had died out, the ground was littered with hell hound dead.

  Life had been difficult for the veldt predators since the arrival of the Pennines. The Fusiliers had decimated them, driving their packs further and further out into the veldt, and the recent harvesting of their natural prey by the airborne Kreothe had forced the packs into desperate actions to survive. The battlepillars were much too large to be brought down, but their passengers were a different matter.

  Miraculously, there were no casualties on either side. Between them, the Fusiliers and Chatts had made short work of the hell hounds. Perhaps this was the first sign of an entente cordiale?

  PALMER AND HOBSON approached the battlepillars. The scentirrii watched them intently, waving their long segmented feelers in their direction and tracking them with their electric lances and spears.

  Nurse Bell climbed down a rope ladder from the battlepillar’s howdah and graciously accepted the padre’s hand as support as she stepped down onto the ground. The Chatts around her all sank down and bowed low, their feelers almost touching the ground.

  Palmer glanced at Sergeant Hobson, who just shook his head. The sergeant had ceased trying to figure this world out, and just got on with it.

  “That’s quite an effect you have on the Chatts there,” said Palmer, intrigued.

  Nurse Bell blushed. “Long story.”

  He stuck out his hand and shook the chaplain’s. “Padre.”

  “It’s done,” the padre said. “Chandar has carried out its side of the bargain.” He nodded toward the encircled system of trenches and Somme soil. “We’re still on their territory, so there are things to be worked out, but generally a state of truce now exists between us.”

  “It is as your dhuyumirrii says,” agreed Chandar. “Now you must keep Everson’s side of the bargain. The sacred scents must be returned home to the Ones.”

  Palmer nodded to Hobson. The sergeant sent a runner back to the lines.

  Bearers brought out several ammunition crates carried on long poles thrust through their rope handles. They carted them over with less respect than they deserved, but more than the Army Service Corps usually mustered for items in its care.

  Palmer opened the crates to show the repository of sacred knowledge, the ancient amphorae and jars packed with dried grasses. Chandar and the others touched their heads and thoraxes in signs of reverence. Chanting in veneration, the dhuyumirrii took up the crates and bore them like tabernacles before loading them into the battlepillars’ panniers for the journey back to Khungarr.

  “SO THAT’S THAT, then,” said Palmer with relief as they watched the procession depart, banging their carapaces and chittering like a tiding of magpies.

  “Oh, I doubt it, sir,” said Hobson.

&nb
sp; “What do you mean, Sergeant? There’s an understanding between us. We’re at peace with them now.”

  “With respect, sir, we’ve made peace, yes. Now we have to keep it. We’ve still got to live with them, and I don’t think that’s going to be as easy as it sounds.”

  EDITH STRODE INTO the hospital tent to find Captain Lippett. She had debated with herself all the way back from Khungarr whether to bring this up, but while there was a possibility of helping those under her care, she decided she would try. She took a deep breath.

  “Doctor Lippett,” she said. “I’d like your permission to start medical trials of petrol fruit liquor on the blinded men.”

  Lippett arched his eyebrows. “You do know that Lieutenant Everson has specifically passed an order forbidding its use for human consumption, Nurse?”

  The words tumbled out before he could silence her again. “But Doctor, consider the anecdotal evidence of the tank crew and the efficacious effects of the liquor on the Chatt. I think it could help those poor men blinded by Chatt acid. It may not return their sight as they were used to it, but in time, might they not learn to see again in a different way?”

  Lippett’s stern gaze held her like pins splaying open a dissection specimen. She knew it, she’d gone too far. Perhaps it was a pity after all that her newfound status didn’t extend beyond the Chatts. Lippet smiled faintly. “I must admit, Nurse Bell, the same thought had crossed my mind, too. Perhaps we should see about setting something up.”

  Humming gaily to herself, Edith sauntered into her tent with the lightness of soul of one who had just crept in late from a jolly good evening out.

  She didn’t care that the entire Khungarrii colony would now fall at her feet when she passed. Her exalted position didn’t matter a jot. She had been away too long and had work to do.

  SERGEANT DIXON LOOKED up at the canyon wall and sized up the pile of scree at its base. The metal wall stood bright and impervious above him in the rock. A challenge.

  He turned back to his men. “Lambert. Bring me the guncotton and a number eight detonator.”

  Dixon and his men scrambled to the top of the scree slope where it met the metal wall and, several yards below, they packed the guncotton into the rocks as deep as they could, running a cable along the top of the slope to a large boulder that would shield them from the blast.

  Sergeant Dixon blew his whistle.

  Below, everyone moved back round the turn in the canyon, where they would be sheltered from blast. Two whistles indicated everyone was in position. There was one long whistle, and then Lambert pushed the plunger on the detonator. It sank with a ratcheted whirr. There followed the briefest of delays. The explosion echoed off the canyon walls, filling it with smoke, dirt and falling debris.

  Then they waited for the raining clinker of rocks to stop and for the dust to clear...

  CHAPTER NINE

  “And There His Foot-Marks Led...”

  EVERSON STOOD BY the lip of the Croatoan Crater. Across the far side, over a mile away, waterfalls half hidden by diaphanous mists plunged silently into the sunken world below. Nazhkadarr, the Scentless Place. The place that should not be, Chandar had called it.

  He leaned forward and peered over the edge. To his right, the forest around them tumbled pell-mell into the crater. To his left, he could see the crumbled lip where the tank had gone over. He saw the gouged ruts it had made as it slid down the steep crater wall toward the dark hole in the jungle canopy.

  Of Nellie Abbot, Napoo and the tank crew there was no sign. When the Fusiliers’ battlepillars reached the crater, he had expected to find them waiting. His first thought had been some sort of attack, but their camp had not been disturbed. Then they found the vine rope slung over the crater side.

  Again he found his plans frustrated. Why did they have to fight for every bloody inch on this planet? This was supposed to be a simple operation; salvage the tank and pick up Jeffries’ trail. Now, even if they found the tank and managed to salvage it, there was no one to man the bloody thing. He’d gambled everything on this.

  “God damn it!”

  He kicked out in frustration. His boot clipped a small stone, and it skimmed over the ground, bounced once and skittered over the edge of the crater.

  “I thought you said you’d ordered them to wait for the salvage party?” Everson snapped at Atkins, regretting it instantly. He watched the lance corporal shuffle uncomfortably.

  “I did, sir, but Nellie, that is Driver Abbott, seemed very concerned about Lieutenant Mathers and Private Perkins, sir. We should have been here days ago. If it wasn’t for—”

  “The mutiny, yes, I know. So they’ve gone down there?” Atkins sighed. “Knowing Nellie, sir? Yes.”

  Nellie Abbott. She had a stubborn attitude forged in suffrage. Which might have been fine if you were chaining yourself to the Town Hall railings. She might have had a point and he might have agreed with her, but out here? Couldn’t the damn woman just do as she was told for once?

  Even Nurse Bell, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose the first time he met her, had become headstrong. What was it about this place and women?

  The Urmen treated their women as equals, sharing the work and the danger. Was that what happened when society started fraying at the edges? Wild Women?

  Only Sister Fenton seemed to maintain a sense of propriety and decorum. Her exterior was stern, proper and unassailable. They had a saying in the hospital: ‘Laugh and the nurse laughs with you, if Sister enters you laugh alone.’ She could keep the girls in check, if she wished, but she seemed inclined to give them their head. Frankly, she was just an enigma.

  “Bugger,” said Everson on reflection.

  Atkins peered down into the crater. “As you quite rightly say, sir, bugger.”

  “OH, THIS IS marvellous,” crowed Hepton, framing the sunken lost world of the crater, with thumbs and forefingers. “Jenkins, bring my equipment over here at once. We’ve got to get this before the light goes. Jenkins, where the bloody hell are you man?”

  Private Jenkins staggered up, carrying not only his own battle order kit but the tripod for Hepton’s camera and several canisters of film. Shining with sweat, he dropped them on the ground, gasping.

  “Careful with them, lad! Bloody expensive things, they are. I’ll have your guts for garters if you break ’em.”

  Hepton panned his imaginary camera across the scene again to find Corporal Riley and Tonkins having a pissing contest over the lip. The awe-inspiring sight was clearly lost on the two soldiers.

  “Philistines!” Hepton muttered.

  MERCY WAS SAT on the lip of the crater, feet hanging over the edge, oblivious to the height and happily tossing small stones into the jungle canopy below.

  Porgy watched Hepton set up his camera. He took his cap off and preened his hair. “Think I’ll try my luck, see if he wants a grin and a wave for the folks back home.”

  “What?” said Porgy, at their sceptical looks. “It’s a chance to be famous, innit? When his film gets shown in all the picture houses, yours truly is going to be a matinee idol. The shop girls are all going to want my autograph.”

  Pot Shot shook his head. “I’ve seen the size of your ‘autograph,’ it’s nothing to write home about.”

  Atkins made his way over to his section.

  “What did the lieutenant say?” Gutsy asked.

  “Might have to send people down there after them.”

  “By ‘people,’ you mean us?”

  “Probably,” said Atkins. “That’s the way our luck runs. In the meantime he wants us to set up a rear guard by the ruins, against any Zohtakarrii patrols, so look sharp.”

  USING THE VINE rope that had been left there by the tank crew, 3 Section, led by Corporal Talbot, descended into the crater to salvage the tank, Walker, Hardiman and Fletcher, going down first to secure the ground and cover the rest of the party. Hume, Owen, Banks, Preston, Cooper, Mitchell and Jackson climbed down after them and waited on the scree as the others advanced into the
jungle.

  The trail left by the tank was obvious. Not even Hardiman could miss it. “Keep your eyes peeled,” said Talbot as they edged down the verdant tunnel the ironclad had left in its wake, wary of every crack and rustle. If the tank crew had been here, they weren’t here now. Anything might have happened. Wise to the ways of this world, Preston and Mitchell kept their rifles pointing up, scanning the canopy overhead. The whoops, squeals and shaking branches set them on edge.

  They found the tank in a crushed bank of tangled foliage, broken saplings and trampled shrubbery. Anything that stayed still here was soon strangled by the ever-present pale creepers, and the tank was no exception as the thick, pallid creepers spread their grip over the ironclad.

  “We’ve got it!” Corporal Talbot hollered back to Walker at the jungle’s edge, who relayed the news back up to the crater rim.

  “Below!” came the reply as several hundredweight of rope and chains tumbled down over the edge, snapping and unspooling as they crashed down the crater side.

  “Jesus!” yelped Fletcher as the chain whipped down past them in a flurry of dust and gravel. “Nearly took my bleedin’ head off!”

  While half the rest of the section set to work with their entrenching tools, hacking the tank free of the creepers’ unwanted embrace, Talbot, Hardiman and Walker set about hauling the heavy lengths of rope and chain towards the tank and securing them.

  The all-clear was relayed up to the top. The drums of petrol fruit fuel had been unloaded from the battlepillars and stacked by the crater ready to refuel the tank, and the ropes had been connected to the battlepillars’ jerry-rigged harnesses.

  From his howdah, Woolridge urged Big Bertha and Big Willie to take the strain. The great ropes thrummed taut as the huge larval beasts edged forward towards the prospect of food at the forest’s edge.