The Ironclad Prophecy

by Kelleher, Pat

  “That wasn’t our fault,” said Atkins. “We simply wanted our people back.”

  “Nevertheless, the atrocity was committed,” said Chandar.

  Atkins was shocked. Was it really all their fault? Had they brought all this on themselves? “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Your act of Kurda, saving this One, was unforeseen, unprecedented. It has cast a new anchor line into the world, a silver thread of possibilities. A web of potential not yet woven. This One would know what may be spun from it.”

  “You’re talking in riddles.”

  “To you, maybe, but to this One these are signs, portents. Upon these rest the fate of your herd, make no mistake.”

  It was almost too much for Atkins. Internal divisions within the Khungarrii, one of which might be sympathetic to the Pennines, now powerless because of the Pennines’ own actions. In one of his blacker moods, he could almost believe that God was having some cruel capricious joke at his expense. All he’d tried to do was the right thing. Almost fearing to broach the subject, he pressed on. “You said some things, yesterday. Was that smoke creature Croatoan?”

  “This One does not know.”

  Atkins felt himself beginning to lose his temper. “Look, chatt, I’m leading my men into God knows what here. If you have any information about what we’re heading into, then tell me. You once said that we had some sort of connection.”

  “Kurda,”

  “Right. Kurda, because I saved your life. Now it’s your turn. Save mine. What’s going on here? What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Chandar fell silent, but glanced occasionally at Atkins as they walked. Perhaps, Atkins thought, the chatt was struggling with its conscience, if it had one. God help them if it didn’t.

  THEY HAD BEEN walking for about half an hour when Chalky stopped to relieve himself by the trackside. He screamed and stepped back, still voiding his bladder. Losing his footing, he turned round to maintain his balance, flinging out an arc of yellow drops as he went.

  Mercy stepped back to avoid the spray. “Hey look out, Chalky. Bleeding hell, ladies present.”

  “Ruddy hell, lad! Did Shiner coming a cropper teach you nothing?” bawled Gutsy.

  “There!” Chalky cried, trying to tuck himself away. “There!”

  “All right, lad. Leave this to us,” said Mercy, stepping past him as he, Gazette and Pot Shot approached the side of the tank’s path.

  Pot Shot looked down into the scrub and found he was peering into the piss-filled eye socket of a skull staring up at him through the reddish bracken.

  Living on the Somme had hardened most of them to such sights. You couldn’t walk ten yards without coming across a body in some state of decomposition. One trench they held had a Frenchie’s arm sticking out of the trench wall. Their old sergeant, Jessop, used to hang his equipment from it.

  Atkins hollered forward for Gutsy to stop the tank.

  It jolted to a halt, its engine idling, splutters of black smoke coughing from the exhaust on the roof. The port sponson door opened and one of the crew, Frank, poked his sweaty face out. “What’s the bloody hold up?”

  “Bodies,” Atkins snapped back. “Urmen.”

  They used entrenching tools to pull away at the tangle of bracken to expose what was left of several skeletons after the scavengers of this world had done their work. Red lichen partially covered the bones. Whatever clothing they might have once worn had completely disintegrated. There was no way of telling how they died, but this planet had a hundred and one different ways to kill you, none of them pleasant.

  Mercy’s clearance also uncovered the remains of some kind of wagon. There wasn’t enough wood left to tell much more. It was rotten and crumbled at the touch.

  These were no recent deaths. The bones had lain here for years, decades, maybe even longer.

  Nellie shook her head sadly. “Poor people.”

  Intrigued, Chandar came over to look, its stunted claw-like mid-limbs fidgeting as it clasped its hands together. “This One never thought to witness such a sight. At Khungarr, all this One had were the artefacts scentirrii patrols brought back. To see them like this is marvellous.”

  Looking at the remains, Atkins thought of the old urman woman’s prediction concerning his own mortality. He shuddered. All of a sudden, he felt very vulnerable to the capricious whims of this planet.

  They dug a small pit and buried what they could find of the bones, the sight of which unsettled Prof, already withdrawn since Nobby’s death, even further. Nevertheless, he managed to say a prayer over them before they moved on.

  THE TANK LURCHED to a halt. Before them, looming out of the thinning jungle, Atkins recognised a familiar structure: a chatt edifice, or rather what was left of one. It was an overgrown and crumbling ruin, swathed in vegetation, like an old dowager decked out in the family jewels. Vines overhung the main entrance into the edifice. The top half of the structure had collapsed long ago, and creeping foliage smothered the rubble and debris strewn about the clearing. The tide of alien nature, no longer kept at bay, had flooded in to reclaim the area once more.

  The Section wandered cautiously towards the once great structure. Even in its heyday, it would not have been as big as Khungarr. Nevertheless, these places were feats of engineering on a par with medieval cathedrals. They stood over many generations of constant habitation, each generation repairing and expanding the ancestral edifice to house the growing colony. What catastrophic event could have overtaken this place to leave it abandoned and in ruins? Atkins couldn’t speculate.

  “I have never seen such a sight,” said Napoo. The spectacle of the edifice, a symbol of the urman’s oppressors’ might and skill, lying shattered and dashed to the ground, must have been a profound sight; an intimation of his oppressor’s mortality, of their fallibility.

  Pot Shot stood beside him and nodded, seeing in it the symbols of his own political beliefs. “And so shall tumble the ivory towers of all tyrants,” he muttered.

  There was an abrupt silence as the tank engine cut out. The silence immediately struck Atkins. The trees and the undergrowth were still and quiet. There were calls and whoops, but only far off, in the distance, as if even the jungle creatures avoided this place.

  Gazette sized up the ruined edifice. “Well, if I were a man-eating evil spirit, that’s where I’d set up shop, all right.”

  Chandar clicked and chattered and, making its sign of deference, began to back away. It seemed to know, or at least suspect something.

  Gutsy clapped a heavy hand on its shoulder. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  Atkins rounded on it. “What is this place?”

  For a moment, Chandar gabbled in its own language, its mandibles and mouth palps moving rapidly in a torrent of clicks and tuts before it remembered, caught its breath, and translated the words into something they could understand.

  “It is forbidden!”

  A loud clang shattered the silence as a hatch swung open on the tank and the crew emerged, blinking and disorientated in the light, coughing and wheezing.

  Nellie, looking for Alfie, saw Mathers stumble out and clutch his stomach. She pointed it out to Atkins with a nudge. They watched as Mathers pulled his hip flask from under his rain cape, lifted the splash mask chainmail aside and took a slug. He straightened up. A breeze blew across the clearing and he turned into the wind for a moment, as if wistfully looking for something, half-remembered.

  “Ah, here come our land navy privateers,” said Prof, nudging Chalky.

  “What did you say?” said Cecil, his blotchy face clouding over as he rounded on the Fusilier. “Nobody calls the crew of the Ivanhoe mutineers, least of all mud-sucking infantry!”

  “No, what I said was –”

  Prof staggered back under the lad’s tackle, trying to block Cecil’s furious punches.

  “Oi!” shouted Jack, striding towards the pair and pulling them apart. He grabbed Cecil and yanked him back by the collar of his coveralls. “This isn’t the time or place.
”

  “But he was bad-mouthing our mob!” insisted Cecil.

  1 Section gathered protectively round a stunned and shaken Prof and the two groups regarded each other with animosity.

  “That’s enough!” yelled Atkins. “Christ knows there are enough things out here that want to kill us without bloody doing it ourselves!”

  THE ALTERCATION BARELY registered with Mathers as he strode between the two groups, scarcely acknowledging the Fusiliers. “Nesbit, that’s enough. We haven’t time. They are inconsequential,” he said. He had other, higher matters to attend to, matters that did not require their presence. This was Hush Hush business. “Our evil spirit dwells within. So let’s make it quick. I don’t like being outside the tank any longer than necessary. The pain is worse out here. Grab your revolvers and weapons and follow me.”

  With derisive mutters and black glances at the Fusiliers, the tank crew fell in behind their commander as he strode towards the ruined edifice. He didn’t need to look back at the Ivanhoe for reassurance, for Skarra was with him. He could hear the god’s insistent ever-present whispers in his mind, directing him, encouraging him.

  A SUDDEN FLUSH of fear washed over Alfie. He turned and looked back at Nellie, taking comfort in the calming, yellow glow she gave off. By comparison, the rest of the tank crew around him radiated ugly, bruised hues of suspicion and paranoia. He knew which he preferred.

  Frank gave him a shove. “What are you going to do, run after your long-haired chum or stay with us?”

  “Nellie can look after herself,” Alfie said.

  “The right choice, Alfie boy,” said Frank, leaning in close. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  MATHERS’ SUDDEN DEPARTURE caught Atkins off guard. Why the hell should he have expected anything less from a madman? “Lieutenant, wait! Where the hell are you going? Come back, sir!”

  Driven on by his own rationale, Mathers didn’t even break his stride, but continued towards the ruins. “You forget, Corporal, I have a spirit to kill and when I do so, I shall become even greater than I am now. I shall add its power to my own. Skarra has promised me!”

  At the mention of Skarra, Chandar hissed gently and made a sign of reverence towards the tank. Could it be that Mad Mathers was actually convincing Chandar of their deception, Atkins wondered? After all, if Mathers had started to believe it...

  The tank commander had reached the overgrown, cavernous entrance and led his men into the ruined edifice.

  A low, continuous moan issued from its depths.

  Atkins hoped it was just the wind through the tunnels.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Across the Untroubled Blue...”

  OUT ON THE veldt, the ominous low rumble that accompanied the line of leaden grey clouds in the distance continued long past the point where it should have died away.

  Everson made his way from the fire trench, along the sap. The disappearance of the Khungarrii was weighing heavily on his mind. What the hell were they up to? He didn’t know and he didn’t like it. This damn planet was full of unknowns. He seemed to spend too much time just reacting to things and trying to keep their heads above water. So far, he’d been lucky. This latest manoeuvre by the Khungarrii, vanishing like that, had unsettled him. All he could do was keep the men stood to in expectation of – of God knew what, frankly. However, they could only do that for so long and they were reaching the end of their tether already. He felt himself floundering, not knowing what to expect next.

  The sap came out by the old Poulet farmhouse. Lieutenant Baxter and his machine gun section occupied the ground floor. They had set the Lewis machine gun up in a window bay, the walls reinforced by sandbags.

  Baxter took him aside and, in a low voice, proceeded to question him. “Everson, any idea what the hell is going on out there? Where have the damned chatts gone to?”

  “I don’t know, Baxter. They seem to have abandoned the field, but whether it’s a feint or not, I just don’t know. Keep your eyes peeled. I’ve only come here for a look-see myself. The Hill OP will keep us informed. As soon as I know anything, you will, Bernard.”

  He patted the officer on the shoulder and, with a shrug and apologetic smile, started up the stairs to the observation platform.

  The whole of the upper level had been roughly refloored with wooden boards, and the old roof, which had been in danger of collapsing, had been removed. Most of the upper walls had been saved. Loose bricks had tumbled down and the rubble still lay scattered around the farmhouse walls. It was open to the elements but for a large tarpaulin that flapped and snapped over his head in the strengthening breeze. He stopped and sniffed. There was a pungent odour on the wind. Damp. Acrid. Rank. Animal.

  “Sir!” The Corporal and two privates on watch snapped to attention as Everson arrived up the stairs. Everson found the RFC Lieutenant, Tulliver, there too, checking the weather. A makeshift windsock billowed in the breeze.

  “Anything to report?” asked Everson, walking up to the empty window frame and looking out over the now desolate veldt. The heavy grey clouds sailed towards them with the threat of rain. Beyond, the rumbling persisted. “What the hell is that?” he muttered, half to himself.

  “Sir!” snapped the Corporal, calling his attention to flashes coming from the OP up on the hillside. Everson watched them for a moment, spat out an oath, pulled out his field glasses and raised them to his eyes.

  A dust cloud rolled along the veldt. Was it the Khungarrii again, hoping to catch them with their guard down? He quickly scanned the field deserted by the alien army. He spotted the immobile chatts facing the oncoming storm with an almost preternatural patience. He focused on the dust cloud. It seemed to stretch right across his field of vision, obscured only by the foothills of the valley.

  “Hell and damnation! It’s a bloody stampede.”

  “Stampede, sir?”

  “Animals, Corporal, thousands of bloody animals headed this way, driven before the storm. When they pass the head of the valley I want you to fire a flare. Understood?”

  “Flare. Understood, sir.”

  “Tulliver, get your machine off the ground, do it now before the thing gets trampled! I don’t want to lose it.”

  “You’re not the only one!” He didn’t have to be told twice. He sprang down the stairs in several leaps and pelted off to the cleared take-off strip.

  Everson trotted down the stairs and rushed out of the farmhouse, past the machine gun section. “Bernard,” he yelled. “Bloody stampede. Best hole up there and stay under cover. They’ll be here soon. Let’s hope they decide to go round instead of through, eh?”

  “Maybe we can help ’em decide?”

  “Be obliged to you!”

  Everson jumped down into the sap and ran along the jinked trench back to the outer fire trench ring. At least down in the trenches the men should be safe; well, safer. Any animals that got beyond the wire weed should just jump right over them.

  At the junction with the fire trench ring, he turned right. Privates turned and looked at the sight of an officer running as he darted past, body swerving round the sandbag traverses, looking for the first NCO he could find. It was Sergeant Hobson.

  “Sergeant, there’s a stampede headed this way. Keep the men stood to. And for God’s sake, preserve your ammunition. Don’t fire unless you have to. Send runners and pass the message on. Everyone else to the dugouts. We can’t guarantee their safety if they’re in the open.”

  “Sir.”

  Everson ran on through several more bays and took a sharp left down Pall Mall, the first communications trench he came to. Scarcely slowing his speed for the tight confines of the trench, he wove down the zigzags, careening off revetments and almost colliding with a ration party bringing up hot soup.

  “Gangway!”

  “Christ, watch it you silly –”

  Everson didn’t wait for their mortified apologies. The soldiers in the trenches and dugouts might well weather the stampede in relative safety, but there were the te
nts and huts in the middle of the encampment that would be vulnerable, most of those housing the sick and the wounded and several small clans of urmen. He had to evacuate them into dugouts. He didn’t want to think about the consequences if he didn’t.

  He collided heavily with someone running the other way, winding himself. He looked up to see the kinematographer straightening his wire-framed glasses.

  “God damn it, Hepton!”

  “You’re in an awful hurry, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s because there’s a bloody stampede headed this way.”

  He caught the eager glint in Hepton’s eye as he pushed past.

  “Alien animal stampede? I say, that’s excellent!” he heard him call back, from beyond another jink in the communications trench, as he put distance between them.

  Everson shook his head as he ran on past the crossroads that connected with the support trench. The damn man was all about the sensational. Well, let him have his stampede. If he got trampled underfoot for his film, it was no skin off his nose.

  He took a left turn into the support trench, the inner ring. Traffic here was heavier and he had to slow down.

  “Private!”

  “Sir?”

  Everson jerked his head in the direction of the parados. “Give me a leg up.”

  “Sir?”

  “Now!”

  The private, nonplussed but knowing better than to ask, linked his fingers together, palms up. Everson stepped into the cradle and the private boosted him up, over the parados sandbags, to the open ground in the centre of the ring of trenches. He made his way to the hospital tent with its shabby fading red cross. He strode in, sweeping the flaps aside.

  “Lippett? Where’s Captain Lippett?” he demanded of the white-coated orderly.