by Pat Kelleher
Atkins felt a knot tighten in his stomach, and shot an accusing glance at Pot Shot. The lanky Fusilier’s eyes widened and he spread his hands in protest.
Hepton pushed his way forward, an obsequious grin on his face, and grasped Werner’s hand in both of his without being offered.
“Oliver Hepton,” he said, pumping the pilot’s hand. “Official War Office kinematographer, at your service. Pleased to meet you, Oberleutnant. What a moment! If only I had my camera.”
“A photographer?” Werner pulled Hepton to one side. “You have a camera? Equipment?”
“Well I did until your Chatts took it from me after they captured us,” replied Hepton. “I hope it’s being taken care of, that’s all. It’s very expensive.” This last remark was addressed rather loudly at the uncomprehending Chatts.
“My what?”
“Chatts. It’s what the men called these insects. Chatts, after the lice that infected their uniforms in the trenches. Lice? Pop, pop, pop?”
“Ah, yes. Tommy humour, no? We must talk more.”
Hepton beamed in triumph.
He was interrupted by Everson, irritated at Hepton’s derailing of the conversation. “Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. What do you intend to do with us, Oberleutnant?” he demanded.
Hepton scowled but kept his eye on Werner.
The German took a deep breath and smiled at them, the expansive genial host. “All in good time, Lieutenant. All in good time. You’re the first human company I’ve had in a long while. I’d like to savour it. Can we not converse as gentlemen? Perhaps your men are hungry.”
He turned to the two inscrutable Chatts and mimed eating. Moments later, several Chatt nymphs with translucent carapaces came through from adjacent chambers, carrying gourds and platters.
Mercy leant over and whispered loudly to his mates. “So how come we’re still living in trenches and he’s living it up like a bleedin’ lord? There’s no fucking justice in the world.”
“Have I not been telling you that?” said Pot Shot wryly.
There were no tables in the chamber. Mercy was considerably less impressed when the nymphs poured the contents into two long chesthigh troughs set into the curved walls of the chamber, one of water, the other now containing some kind of sloppy fungus.
Gazette watched the Chatt servants retire from the chamber, his sniper’s eye mentally fixing them in his sights.
“Please, don’t stand on ceremony. Help yourselves,” said Werner to the Fusiliers. “It is insekt futter, foul stuff, but nutritious nonetheless. I’m sure you’ve eaten worse in the trenches.”
Atkins glared at the Hun and then at the troughs. “No thanks to your lot—and never like animals.”
Werner laughed, amused. “It’s how these creatures eat,” he explained, throwing off the accusation. “They don’t use crockery and cutlery. They don’t even use their hands. They eat directly with their mouth parts. They have the manners of pigs, these insekt menschen. Have you seen them eat? They slice with their mandibles and scoop it straight into their mouths with their—what do you call them?” he put the back of his hand to his lips and waggled his fingers.
“Palps,” said Everson.
“Ah. Palps, then. Yes.”
Everson gave a weary nod to Atkins, dismissing him, while the officers continued their conversation at the other side of the chamber.
The men went over to the troughs. They were at an awkward height, too high to eat from comfortably, even if they felt like it.
“A Hun,” said Tonkins in awe, as they huddled round the troughs, glad to have some space away from the officers. “I’ve never actually met a Hun before.”
“Never met a live one, you mean,” said Riley.
Gutsy grumbled. “Just let me at the Bosche bastard.”
“Keep your voice down,” said Atkins. He picked absent-mindedly at the fungus, but kept his eyes on the officers across the chamber. “What the hell was all that about dark scentirrii?”
“Ignore it,” said Pot Shot. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Atkins wasn’t so sure. He remembered Mathers’ prophecy, and tried to dismiss the unwanted implications.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” asked Riley, watching the officers.
“A way out of here, with a bit of luck,” said Mercy, through a mouth full of half-masticated fungus. He looked up to see Gazette staring at him. “What?”
“God, doesn’t anything put you off eating?” asked Gazette.
“Gutsy’s farts?” Mercy shot back, spraying him with a soggy shrapnel of fungus. “Besides, do you know when we’re going to get another meal?”
It was this attitude, of getting what you could where you could, that made Mercy such a useful asset to the section, not to mention the platoon, but in this case, Gazette was prepared to make an exception.
“Suit yourself,” said Mercy.
EVERSON HAD BEGUN to tire of the social niceties. “What are you going to do with us, Werner?” he asked.
Werner looked affronted. “Me, Lieutenant? Nothing.” He waved a hand at the two Chatt attendants. “My hosts merely extended me the privilege of a little company. After all, I did let them know you were coming.”
“You told them about us?” repeated Everson.
“Of course. They might have killed you all otherwise. After the unique manner of my arrival, the insekt menschen were on the look out for more like me. I told them of your existence and I told them you were coming. What are you even doing out here, Lieutenant, so far from your nice cosy trenches?”
“We lost... something. In the crater,” said Everson. Ironclads were still supposed to be secret; tankers often referred to themselves as the Hush Hush Crowd, such was the clandestine nature of their training. However far they were away from Earth, Werner was still a Hun, and he didn’t want to give any information to him that might profit the enemy.
Werner looked rueful. “Ah, the crater. Then I’m afraid it is gone for good. The insekt menschen are very zealous. They do not allow anything out of the crater and they certainly do not let anything in. They believe it is an evil place. When they knew you were headed towards it, they became very agitated, hence their attacking you like that. You were looking for some lost men, I think?”
“Yes,” said Everson, warily. “Have you met a man calling himself Jeffries? An English officer.”
Werner tapped his lips with a finger, frowned and shook his head. “I think I would have remembered an officer.”
“You’d have certainly remembered him,” Everson admitted with a grimace.
“What about soldiers?” asked the padre.
Werner shrugged. “The insekt menschen have brought in one or two patrols, or deserters, maybe? I had to question them, see if they were useful. But to be honest, even if they were, the treatment of the urmenschen they keep as slaves here is brutal. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for them, Lieutenant.”
Werner shuffled uncomfortably, noticing black looks from the men by the troughs.
“There was nothing I could do,” he said diffidently.
“So that’s why we’re here,” said Everson, scarcely able to maintain an even tone, nodding towards the inscrutable Chatts watching them silently. “So you could tell them if we’re useful or not?”
There was an embarrassed silence.
“And what will you tell them?” asked Everson bitterly.
Werner lowered his head. “I regret, Lieutenant, that I cannot save you.”
“Cannot, or will not?” he demanded. “Surely you can’t side with these Chatts against us? We’re human.”
Werner shook his head, heaved a sigh and corrected him. “You’re British, Lieutenant,” he said. “These insekt menschen may be uncivilised, but they do understand the nature of a territorial dispute. I told them you were my enemy when they found me. Your battalion is your downfall. These creatures see your numbers as a threat to their territory and resources.”
“So you’re working with them?
”
“Don’t be so high and mighty, Lieutenant,” said Werner with disdain. “You had your battalion. I was on my own. These creatures saved my life. They raised me above the urmenschen that cling so desperately to existence here, and I agreed to help them. They are searching for something. I merely offered my services.”
“As what?”
“A Luftstreitkräfte.”
Werner ushered them out onto a balcony beyond the window. Looking down, Tulliver noted that the Urmen shanty town that existed on the slopes of the Khungarrii edifice didn’t exist here. The edifice was fortified, as if they expected a siege. Below, he saw a large courtyard, still under construction, judging by the Chatts scurrying over the partially built walls. There within it, tethered, patched and inflated, was a silver-grey German kite balloon.
Tulliver remembered seeing one when they first arrived on this world, its winch line severed the moment they vanished from Earth. He had a vague memory of it drifting off when they appeared here. He’d thought nothing of it at the time, having an Albatros to deal with, and a world of strangeness since then.
“They might not understand our flying machines, but it didn’t take long for them to grasp the principle of the balloon. Even now they are constructing their own.”
“For what purpose?” asked Everson. “Are they at war?”
“In a manner of speaking. I told you they fear the crater. To them it represents some great evil, and they seek to arm themselves against it. They see the balloon as a useful instrument in their eternal vigilance. They stand guard at the edge of the crater like the angels at the gates of Eden, no, Padre?” he said, turning to the chaplain.
Before the padre could reply, they were interrupted by a creaking sound and the fibrous door to the chamber shrank open. Werner’s disappointment was evident. Even more so when two armed scentirrii stepped through. Four more waited outside. “No,” he protested to his attendants. “They’ve only just arrived.”
“Come,” ordered the scentirrii. It waited for a moment then repeated the command, belching the word out. They were a lot less articulate than the Khungarrii. The scentirrii motioned towards the door with their spears, while guards outside wore clay battery packs and held electric lances similar in design to those of the Khungarrii.
“Come.” It hissed again, raising itself up on its legs threateningly.
“Food was lousy anyway,” muttered Mercy, spitting a half-chewed gobbet at Werner’s feet as they passed. “Hope it chokes you.”
Werner wore a look of pained exasperation.
Everson was still trying to finish his conversation with Werner, glean what further intelligence he could. “What happened to them, to the men they captured, damn it?”
Werner shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “I do not know, but I’m very much afraid you will find out.”
“No. Not me, I can be helpful,” cried Hepton desperately, as a scentirrii prodded him with a spear.
Atkins looked at him with disgust. When another scentirrii manhandled him, he took the opportunity to accidentally plant his elbow into Hepton’s solar plexus.
Hepton doubled over, winded, struggling to draw breath as he glared at Atkins through watering eyes.
“Sorry, Hepton,” said Atkins.
A scentirrii attempted to seize Tulliver by the arm.
Werner stepped forward. “No, he stays,” he said, appealing to his two Chatt attendants. “He stays. He flies—like me.” He stuck his arms out like wings and mimed flying, as you might to a child.
The scentirrii waved its antennae towards the Chatt attendants, then shoved Tulliver out of the pack toward him, causing the flying officer to stumble.
“Hey!” Tulliver brought his arm back, preparing to swing for the Chatts.
As the others were being herded out of the chamber, Everson stepped forward, appearing to help Tulliver, although it was more to gently restrain him from fighting back.
“No,” he said in a low voice, looking over Tulliver’s shoulder to where Werner stood. “Stay here. Find out what you can. And if you get a chance, escape. Get back to camp, let them know what’s happened.”
Tulliver’s eyes flashed at the Chatt that stood over them, but he nodded imperceptibly. He stood up and swept back his fringe as Everson allowed himself to be taken from the chamber with the others.
WERNER CLAPPED TULLIVER on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend. They’ll be taken back to their cell,” he said. “But come. We have so much to talk about, you and I.”
At first Tulliver had been elated to find another flyer, someone who understood what it was like to be up there. He’d longed to talk shop, as if he were back in the officer’s mess, but now the feeling had soured.
“I should very much like to see your machine. A Sopwith 1½ Strutter. Yes? With synchronised gears for your forward machine gun. You finally caught up with us.”
“Maybe I’ll take you for a spin,” said Tulliver bitterly.
They moved round the chamber, unconsciously circling each other as if they were two thousand feet over the Somme, looking for the advantage. The Chatt attendants watched, conferring with each other.
Tulliver looked up with a dawning realisation. “Your aeroplane,” he said. “It still flies, doesn’t it?”
Werner’s broad smile was all the answer the pilot needed. It hadn’t been his imagination. There had been something up there. Not a creature at all. It had been Werner keeping an eye on him all this time. He must be a damn good pilot.
“Yes. I have been watching your progress for months,” admitted Werner. “Flying high over your trenches, catching glimpses between the clouds. And I shadowed you of course, discreetly. Tell me, with your squadron, did you ever play hide-and-seek in the clouds?”
Tulliver knew the game well. Every flyer did. It was good practice for dog fighting. “You’re not too good at it,” said Tulliver. “You became careless.”
Werner shook his head. “Careless? No. I got lonely. I think part of me wanted to be spotted.”
He wandered back to the window, and stepped out onto the balcony beyond, beckoning Tulliver to join him It was easy to believe, standing high on the side of the Zohtakarrii edifice and looking out over the forests and the plains beyond, that you were Master of the World. It felt like you were flying, until you looked down.
“Magnificent view, isn’t it?” said Werner with a sigh. But he wasn’t looking at the landscape. He was looking up. “A whole new sky, new horizons.” For a moment he seemed lost in melancholy. When he spoke again, he had recovered his bravado. “My Albatros is far superior in speed and performance to your heavy Sopwith, Tulliver. Had I not been so disorientated when we appeared here, then the story might have been very different, no?” He mimed planes with his hands, his right swooping up under his left, towards its palm, illustrating some manoeuvre. “I think you took advantage of the situation, my friend. After you shot me down, Herr Tulliver, I barely managed to pull out of the spin and make a safe landing.
“At first I was furious. I couldn’t understand what had happened. Can you imagine my amazement to find that I was no longer in France? Yes, what am I saying? Of course you can. But you had men and defences at your disposal. I was a downed airman in a foreign land.” He made a sweeping gesture at the forest surrounding them. “A foreign world.
“A patrol of insekt menschen found me. They saved my life and I repaid them with the only thing I had to offer.”
“Your Albatros.”
“They had never seen a flying machine before. They were amazed. And they have been able to produce a passable petrol substitute. Not long after, they found the kite balloon and I was able to direct their repair of it. They have done a fine job, do you not think?”
“It’s hardly an air force, old chum,” said Tulliver. “If that’s what you promised them, then they’re in for a surprise.”
Werner turned and appealed to the pilot. “Ah, but they have constructed their own; and now they have your machine, too.�
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“Maybe, but they don’t have me,” said Tulliver.
“Pity. I should have liked to fly with you.”
“You could leave them at any time,” challenged Tulliver. “Why stay?”
“Why does the falcon not leave the falconer? Certainly I may leave, Lieutenant, but where to, and to what? I have seen you in your trenches. I have watched your vain attempts to tame this planet, watched your little huts go up, seen you grub fields and grow crops. And I have seen it all ruined. Here at least, I am safe. Here, I am—”
“Kaiser?”
Werner clucked his tongue in reprimand. “Able to fly. Able to fly, Tulliver! And I have flown high and far.” He lowered his voice and stepped closer. “And I have seen things, Tulliver, up there where the air is thin and cold. There is a mystery to this planet.” Werner stepped back and examined Tulliver’s face. “You have seen it also, I think, have you not? It is what the insekt menschen search for. You and I might be the only people on this world to have seen it.”
“Seen what?” asked Tulliver. He remembered his own brief glimpse of the world spread out below him, before his engine cut out.
“Marks. Marks on the landscape. Intersecting lines, miles long.” He waved a hand towards the watching Chatts. “You can tell them this, you can confirm what I have seen.”
Tulliver wasn’t sure what he had seen, it had been so brief, but his reaction now was one of scepticism. Markings on a geographical scale? And then he was struck by a thought. Wasn’t that how Jeffries was supposed to have performed his Somme ritual, within a pentagram scored across the front lines by artillery fire? Tulliver should know. It was he who unknowingly took Jeffries up artillery spotting for it. He’d just been another anonymous spotter at the time.
Tulliver shook his head “I’m not sure what I saw. It was only for a brief moment. I couldn’t confirm anything.”
“The insekt menschen are searching for proof of their god’s existence. I think I might have seen it. They believe it created this world for them, and that its mark upon it might be visible. The Albatros is only a singleseater. I cannot show them what I have seen. I have been trying to use a camera salvaged from the observation balloon, along with a number of unexposed plates, but I can’t develop them.”
