by Pat Kelleher
Company Quartermaster Sergeant Slacke handed the men two days’ provisions, water and one magazine of ammunition of ten rounds for their Enfields, which he felt was more than they deserved given the circumstances.
Everson wasn’t entirely sure how merciful the commuted sentence was. It was in effect still a death sentence, expecting them to survive out there for any length of time. At least they had a chance. Rutherford had a ‘wife’ among the nomadic Urmen. Everson knew that her Urmen enclave was planning to move out, unsettled by the riots. It brought him some comfort. If the men survived long enough to meet up with them, then they might improve their chances.
They walked past the poppies that spread out across the scorched cordon sanitaire and strode out into the veldt of tube grass. Only Rutherford turned to glance back. It was a look of hurt, betrayal and sorrow, and it shook Everson to the core.
Standing up on the observation platform on the remains of the ruined first floor, Everson felt duty-bound to remain long after the other ranks had been dismissed, not to make sure they actually left, but out of a sense of guilt.
“It had to be done, John,” said Lieutenant Baxter, coming up and standing at his shoulder. He watched with him as the dwindling figures were finally swallowed by the veldt. Although a couple of months younger than Everson himself, Baxter, with his full moustache and easy smile, exuded the air of a favourite school master. Everson found his company comforting.
From behind, within the wireweed-bounded camp, the barks of NCOs urged work parties on, a little harder than necessary in revenge for the rioting.
He looked out across the camp. “I’ve lost them, Bernard.”
“They’ll come round, John. They need you, more than they think.”
THE OFFICERS GATHERED in the Command Post. Their mood was sombre and subdued. All of them looked shaken. Their world of entitlement and privilege had come close to being toppled. Next time, they might not be so lucky.
There were seven of them left, a smaller and more exclusive club than they were happy with: Baxter, Palmer, Tulliver, Lippett, Haslam and Seward. They sat on old salvaged chairs or ammo boxes, each lost in their own thoughts or, perhaps, wondering whether to give voice to them.
From his desk, Everson looked around the room. The mutineers’ stupid little act had almost cost him his men. He didn’t want it to cost him his officers, too.
“Right. First things first. If anyone has anything to say about my leadership of the battalion since Captain Grantham’s death, best get it off your chest now. I don’t want another coup on my hands.”
Palmer let out an awkward cough. “Everson, old stick, no one thinks anything of the sort.” He looked around at his fellow subalterns. “Do they?”
There was a chorus of nos and of course nots. The position of battalion commander seemed to be a poisoned chalice. No one else wanted to oversee the decimation of a once-proud battalion.
“Have I lost them?” he asked.
“Just got to keep them busy, old man, that’s the thing.”
“How about an inter-company football tournament?”
Lippett sat polishing his glasses, breathing on the lens, watching them fog and rubbing them between a thumb and forefinger with a scrap of cloth before hooking the wire arms back over his ears again. The MO was considerably older than the young officers around him, and his rank of Captain purely honorary. Eager young bucks once, now cautious and fatigued. Old men before their time, their bright, once-flushed faces now drawn and pasty.
Lippett considered his words. “You’re losing them,” he said, “but you’ve not lost them yet. They need something concrete to focus on. Vague hopes of being spirited back home are no longer enough.”
Baxter stroked his moustache, arched an eyebrow at Everson, and nodded with encouragement.
Everson stood up and braced his palms on the table. “You’re right,” he said with resolve. “We must move forward from this, carry the men with us. Our first priority is to relieve the tank crew and salvage the tank, if we can. That operation has been delayed far too long.”
“Exactly! The ironclad is a great boost to morale. It scares the dickens out of the Chatts. With that back in our midst, morale should soar.”
Tulliver spoke up. “Well, the tank crew were still alive and camped by the crater as of my last patrol three days ago.”
“But I thought the tank was at the bottom of the crater. How are we going to get the bally thing up?”
Everson smiled for the first time in days. “That’s the easiest part,” he said. “We’ll use the captured Khungarrii battlepillars.”
The battlepillars were great larval beasts of burden, giant armoured caterpillars larger than an elephant and up to thirty yards long.
“There are secondary objectives too,” said Everson, his confidence growing with every moment. It was a relief to be putting a plan into action again. “On the way, I intend to leave a party of sappers at the gorge to investigate this mysterious metal wall that Corporal Atkins found.”
Haslam, his curiosity piqued, leant forward. “Yes, what the hell is it?”
“That’s what I intend we find out. Atkins reports that it’s a machined face of metal in the gorge wall, perfectly flat, with no visible doors or windows. Indicative of some civilisation, perhaps. We won’t know until we take a closer look at it.
“In addition, once we reach the Croatoan Crater, we can pick up Jeffries’ trail. This is the closest we have come to him, gentlemen.”
“But how do you know he was there?” asked Seward.
Everson fished in his tunic pocket and tossed onto the table a scrap of bloodstained khaki cloth with a button attached.
“This was found at the Nazarrii edifice by the crater. The button bears the Pennines’ crest. Since Atkins and his men were the first Fusiliers to reach that place, this can only have belonged to Jeffries. He was there. I’d stake my life on it.”
“You may well have to,” warned Haslam.
“In the meantime, what of the Chatts?” asked Seward. “Without the tank, we’re still vulnerable to another attack.”
“We’ve made progress there, too,” said Everson. “I think we may be able to broker some kind of deal with the Khungarrii.”
“How? We have one Chatt prisoner and not an impressive specimen at that,” said Seward, looking round the room to nods of amused agreement.
“It turns out that it’s more important than we thought. It’s one of their priest caste.”
“Well let’s hope we’ve got an ace up our sleeve, because we bally well need one.”
Everson smiled. “Oh, we do, gentlemen. We do.”
EVERSON MADE HIS way to the dugout where they held the Chatt prisoner. Atkins and Evans stood to attention as he approached.
“I need to talk to Chandar,” he said.
“Best take this, then, sir.” Atkins handed the officer a PH hood.
“Just a precaution after what it did to the rioters.”
Everson nodded, took the proffered gas hood and pulled it on. He ducked his head and descended the steep steps. He never got used to the idea that the creature was not of Earth. There was no precedent in religion or science to explain it, yet here it was—or rather, here they were, for this, he forced himself to remember, was their world. At the bottom of the steps was a bolted door with a small judas hole in it. They had erected it after the attempted mutiny, for the Chatt’s protection as much as that of the soldiers. He unholstered his revolver, and peered into the gloom beyond.
Chandar was one of the priest caste from the Khungarr colony of an arthropod race that called themselves the Ones, or the Children of GarSuleth, their insect deity.
Its only clothing was a woven silk garment made of a single, seamless piece of cloth that went over the left shoulder of its chitinous chest plate and wrapped around its segmented abdomen. Tassels hung from it, the knots scented with scriptural scent texts, like a prayer book or a rosary.
Once white, like its carapace, the cloth was
now stained and soiled. Everson coughed. Chandar turned its head toward the door. Wet clicks issued from the mucus-slick maw between its mandibles. The smooth ivory white carapace of its facial plates caught the light of the hurricane lamp hanging from the roof beam. Its visage gave nothing away. Everson couldn’t tell whether it was afraid, indifferent, or angry at its incarceration. On top of its cranial carapace, the remaining stumps of its antennae twitched and jerked, as if phantom feelers were still scenting the air.
Everson regarded it thoughtfully for a moment. “We need to talk,” he said.
He heard an asthmatic intake of breath forced out over organs unsuited for human speech.
“If GarSuleth wills it.”
“Stand back,” he ordered as he slid the bolt and pulled open the door. It caught against the uneven earthen floor, and he had to jerk it several times to get it open.
The Chatt waited patiently, and when Everson entered, sank down slightly on its legs. The vestigial middle limbs, little more than chitinous claws, splayed from its abdomen. It regarded the reflection of itself in the mica eyepieces of Everson’s gas hood, as he looked back at himself reflected in its large, featureless black eyes.
Another intake of breath and its finger-like mouth palps moved within the arc of its mandibles like a loom, almost as if it were weaving the words out of its breath. “Ev-er-son?” it asked.
Everson pulled his gas mask off. It was a token of trust, but only a small one. The guards outside would kill it if it tried to escape. A sharp acrid smell assailed his nostrils. His nose wrinkled. He almost wanted to put the mask back on. He looked around and saw a damp patch in the corner of the room. The thing didn’t even know enough to use the bloody bucket.
“This One offers you a blessing in the name of GarSuleth,” it said, refraining from the benediction spray that was the gift of all Dhuyumirrii, the Chatt priest class.
Everson got straight to the point. “I need to know if the Khungarrii will attack again.”
The Chatt allowed its stunted middle limbs to fold inward against its segmented abdomen again. Its answer sailed on the top of a wheeze, the clicking of its mandibles punctuating the words. “Unless this One returns to Khungarr, it is a certainty.” The tone was flat, emotionless.
There was no emphasis. It was hard to tell whether this was a threat or merely a statement.
“That’s what I’m here to discuss,” said Everson, stepping into the small dugout, leaving the door open, as much to help ventilate the place as to suggest trust.
“This One wishes Atkins’ presence,” it said, shuffling back. “No,” said Everson calmly. “You will talk to me.” He didn’t wish his authority undermined by one of his own men. Not right now. This was something he had to do for himself.
The Chatt blinked, but otherwise didn’t move. Stalemate. “God damn it,” Everson wheeled round, the dirt scrunching under his heels as he pivoted. He called up the steps. “Atkins, get down here!” It was as if the thing found some comfort in the corporal’s presence.
If it made it talk then he’d have to put up with it.
Atkins thudded his way down the steps. “Sir?”
“Seems Chandar won’t talk unless you’re here,” said Everson sourly. Atkins’ face flushed. “It’s this Kurda thing, sir, some Chatt sense of honour, as far as I can make out. Since I saved its life, it thinks we have a connection.”
Chandar looked from one to the other. “This One wishes to know what you have done with the collection of sacred salves recovered from Nazarr.”
Everson turned back to the Chatt. “They’re safe for now. That’s all you need to know. You are in no place to make demands.” Nictitating membranes flicked over the black orbs of its eyes. “That is where you are wrong,” it said, its mouth palps quivering as it spoke.
“It appears that this One is in exactly the right place.”
Everson indicated the earthen walls surrounding them. “You’re in a prison cell.”
The Chatt’s vestigial limbs opened and closed in what might have been a shrug. “This One is exactly where GarSuleth wants this One to be.”
“Why are they so important to you? What do they contain, exactly?”
“Quite possibly, your salvation and this One’s substantiation,” the wheezing Chatt said. “There has long been a debate in Khungarr that has consumed every generation, concerning the nature of what the aromatic scriptures refer to as the Great Corruption. At present, Sirigar, Liya Dhuyumirrii of Khungarr, seeks to join the disparate olfactions of the Shura in order to consolidate its position. That One’s interpretation of the perfumed prophecy holds you Tohmii to be the embodiment of the ancient scriptural evil. Your actions in attacking Khungarr have only strengthened that interpretation, along with Sirigar’s standing within the Shura. With the defeat of the Great Corruption, that One’s power will be assured. Thus has Sirigar ordered your herd to be culled.”
“You mean it’s using us as a unifying threat?”
“Yes. However, there are those in the Shura that believe that Sirigar’s interpretation is false and merely a political expediency. Those Ones believe that references to the Great Corruption refer not to an external physical threat, but warn against a theological dilemma that would see our own beliefs diluted to serve a baser purpose. We believe it refers to Sirigar’s debasement of the Scents of GarSuleth.
“The only way to challenge and defeat Sirigar is in ritual debate before the Shura, the Supplication of Scents, but we must have arguments and commentaries to back up our claims. We had been diligently searching the Aromatic Archive of the Fragrant Libraries for such truths when Jeffries destroyed them. Irreplaceable scents that have been Khungarr’s guide and strength for generations are gone forever. And with them this One’s chance to defeat Sirigar.”
“And you think this collection of lost scents will provide those answers?”
“Yes. It is this One’s fervent hope that the scent texts discovered in Nazarr with Atkins will provide the scriptural proof this One’s olfaction has been seeking. They could hold the scriptural arguments necessary to absolve the Tohmii of their apocalyptic role.” Everson paced back and forth, absorbing the information. “So you’re saying our only hope of survival is to aid you in your religious insurrection to unseat Sirigar?”
“It is.”
Having just put down a mutiny of his own, the irony was not lost on him. At least now he knew just how valuable the collection of stone jars was. That was worth knowing, and the jars themselves worth holding to ransom.
“Right. And how likely is this to happen?”
“That would depend on the contents of the scriptures.”
“Don’t you know what they are?”
It indicated its antennae stumps. “This one is unable to read the scents texts since Sirigar had this one’s antennae broken.” Of course. With no feelers, it was crippled and scent-blind, effectively an invalid in their culture.
Everson exchanged looks with Atkins, who shook his head and shrugged. He hadn’t really expected the NCO to have any answers.
After all, this was his call. Everson returned his attention to the Chatt.
“You’re not making this easy for me, are you? You want me to let you walk out of here, taking all those jars with you. Even supposing they provide whatever it is you need, there is no assurance that you can even dispose of this Sirigar.”
“This is true.”
He stopped pacing and turned to face Chandar. “Yet you expect me to trust you?”
“If GarSuleth wills it.”
Everson considered the implications, and then shook his head. “No.
While it is clear that these jars are of great importance, I’m not willing to let them out of my possession. Not without knowing what they contain. Not without guarantees. Quite honestly, your continued presence here is problematic.”
Chandar cocked its head to one side. “So is yours, if this One does not succeed.”
The thing was wily. It might act helpless, but its
immobile features hid a cunning intelligence. It had the perfect poker face. Everson paced the small cell while the arthropod watched impassively. The thing had him over a barrel, but he wasn’t going to let it know that. It had dealt its hand and it was a strong one.
His own hand was not so strong, but far from useless. He didn’t trust it. To that end he had put plans in place, a fallback position, but for now he would let it return to Khungarr, although he’d be damned if he gave up the one advantage they appeared to have.
He approached the Chatt, staring straight into its black eyes. “Very well,” he said with deliberation. “I’ll let you return to your colony.” Chandar became quite animated, clicking its middle limbs together.
“GarSuleth wills it,” it said. “In sending the sanctified odours of GarSuleth you will have demonstrated that you Urmen are part of GarSuleth’s will, that you possess a fraction of his essence, a fact Sirigar denies.”
“That’s not my problem. You say your olfaction means us no harm.
Well, we want proof. Until there is some sort of deal struck between the Khungarrii and the Pennines, the scents will remain in our possession.
You can take one. One jar, as a sample. The rest remain here.” Everson ushered Atkins from the dugout and made to follow. “But this One cannot read the scent texts,” said Chandar. Everson turned and regarded it coolly. “Then you had better choose carefully.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“The Clays of a Cold Star...”
“CORPORAL ATKINS TOLD us to wait here,” Norman snapped at Nellie Abbott.
Nellie arched an eyebrow and stared him down, arms folded. The FANY, dressed in her calf-length brown skirt and brown jacket, stood her ground, short curly hair framing a plain face. Some of the men assumed her hair was cut short in support of women’s suffrage. The truth was she simply found it more practical.
“I don’t care what Corporal Atkins said. And, frankly, I’m surprised you do. You never did before,” she retorted. “They should have been back here days ago. That’s what Lieutenant Tulliver’s message said. Something must have happened. We’ve waited long enough. We’ll have to go down without them. The Ivanhoe’s down there. Alfie and Lieutenant Mathers are down there, too, in case you’d forgotten!”