No Man's World: Omnibus

by Pat Kelleher

  “Then why on earth did you take them?”

  “I thought perhaps someday...” He waved a hand. “That’s why I need your help. You are the answer to my prayers, Tulliver. You can verify my findings.” Werner paused, searching Tulliver’s face. “You don’t believe me.” Werner shook his head. “You should see for yourself.”

  “Why, what was it, what did you see?” urged Tulliver.

  “Fly with me. I will show you.”

  Tulliver was almost taken in by his earnest plea. “Free my friends and I’ll consider it.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Those are my terms. You have influence with these Chatts. Let the Fusiliers go free and I’ll help.”

  Werner’s whole posture sagged. “It is not possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are earmarked for the pits!” he declared. “They’re dead. If you won’t help me, then perhaps your kinematographer, what was his name, Hepton. Perhaps he will help. He seemed very eager to save his own life. If you care so little about yours, you can join your friends!”

  That was when Tulliver saw the truth. Across the side of the edifice, all the other balconies were scentirrii watch posts. He glanced back into the chamber. This wasn’t a private chamber with its own balcony, like some hotel in Paris. It was unadorned and functional. The Chatts weren’t his attendants, they were his gaolers. This chamber was as much a cell as the one Everson had been kept in.

  Tulliver’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “The Chatts didn’t save your life, did they? They spared it. In return for what? What do you owe these creatures?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Werner. But his face told a different story. The mask of geniality and charm had slipped to reveal someone who had been playing a game for far too long and had grown weary.

  “But I am afraid, Tulliver. If I am right, then this world is a hell like no other, and no human god created this place.”

  INTERLUDE THREE

  Letter from Lance Corporal Thomas Atkins

  to Flora Mullins

  5th April 1917

  My Dearest Flora,

  Today I spotted someone I thought knew. It would have been nice to catch up again, but it wasn’t them. Still, maybe we’ll meet up somewhere down the line. I remember bumping into William once down the reserve lines, when he was stacking artillery shells and I was on a ration party. We both had to do a double take.

  We haven’t made it to the tank yet (story of my life, that). We made some new friends along the way though, and took a bit of a detour. Still, I suppose we are still getting to see quite a bit of the local countryside, and at least we’ve got a roof over our heads for a while.

  However, as Pot Shot will keep harping on, someone will have to pay the piper soon, so expect us to have to sing for our supper. They won’t get much of a song for it though, because the food is nothing to write home about, so I won’t. That never seems to stop Mercy. He’ll eat anything (and he did). You should have seen Gutsy’s eyes light up when he found out. “In that case, I’ve got some nice calves’ trotters and scrag end of mutton I could sell you!” says he. What larks.

  Ever yours,

  Thomas

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Keep Your Head Down, Fusilier...”

  ALFIE HAD HEARD estaminet tales about the poor buggers found guilty of desertion and sentenced by court-martial to death by firing squad.

  He had a mate who had stood guard with one on their last night. ‘Prisoner’s friend.’ Filthy job, he said. You needed a heart of stone. Young, he was, too; barely nineteen. Only been at the Front for a month before he funked it. But he wouldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep, probably. The lad’s moods would swing wildly. Sometimes he’d sit with quiet resignation, constantly asking the time, for they all knew that when dawn came he was to be shot. Other times he wept and cried and wailed and begged and pleaded, every shred of dignity gone, dissolved in streams of tears and snot. In the end they got him drunk. So drunk, as it happened, that he could barely stand the next morning when they led him out to the firing squad. They literally had to drag him. When they tied him to the post, blindfolded him and pinned the white rag over his heart, he’d pissed himself.

  Then again, half the firing squad were more than a little squiffy themselves, having been given tots of rum to stiffen their resolve. Didn’t do much for their aim though, his mate said. Sergeant had to come over and finish the bugger off with his revolver.

  Sat here in the dark of the Urman hut, the pain in his leg flaring and a great knot of anxiety and terror churning in his belly, Alfie knew how the poor sod felt. He could feel the vomit burn up his throat, but he swallowed it again. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid.

  The Urmen were going to kill him. They’d said as much. He was to be sent to converse with their dead or some such. Bit of a one-way conversation, he thought.

  He never reckoned he’d end his days as a ritual sacrifice, even if that was what Jeffries had planned for them with his diabolic battlefield rite back at Harcourt Wood. Funny, he thought. Perhaps that’s all they’d been all along; sacrifices. The top brass seemed willing to sacrifice everyone on the altar of Victory for a few hundred yards of muddy corpse-ridden field. Ah, the good old days. He let out a bitter laugh. Jesus, who’d have thought he’d be longing to be back on the Somme.

  His thoughts turned to Nellie Abbott. He smiled to himself, but it was wistful, full of regret for the time they would never spend together. He thought of her out there, with the others. At least she’d be safe. Oh, bloody hell, what was he thinking? She didn’t just sit still. She’d come halfway across the planet to find him before. What on Earth made him think she’d stop now? He didn’t know who to feel sorry for most: him here without her, or his crewmates with her cajoling and barracking them into action.

  But what the hell could he do? How far did he think he could get with a broken leg, even if he did escape?

  Ranaman entered the hut with Tarak, interrupting his thoughts. “The time of Croatoan’s Torment approaches,” the clan chief said. “We must ease his suffering with your passage.”

  Alfie pushed himself back up against the wall, and his broken leg protested with another burning jolt of pain. He clenched his teeth and sucked air in through them, hard. Not because of what Ranaman had said, but what the Urman was holding. It was a rifle. No, not a rifle; an old-fashioned musket.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked in spite of himself.

  “It is a holy relic. It is the Key. Our ancestors said it opens the door to the underworld.”

  “Well that’s one way of bloody putting it,” said Alfie under his breath.

  He brandished the ancient firearm at Alfie, who flinched, half expecting it to go off, until he realised that Ranaman was holding it all wrong. He was holding it like a swagger stick, something with which to point. His finger was nowhere near the trigger.

  Besides, Alfie found himself thinking, wasn’t sacrificing done with a special sacred knife or something? What did they do, cut your heart out and hold it aloft, still beating, dripping with hot blood?

  All of a sudden, a firing squad didn’t seem that bad.

  He determined to look for any opportunity to escape. At least then, if he were going to die, it would be on his own terms.

  But no, if he did, the boy Tarak would pay the price. There had to be another way. If there was, though, he couldn’t see it.

  Ranaman nodded and Tarak took Alfie’s arm, pulling him up without concern for his beside manner, or the suffering of his patient. Alfie sucked down the pain again as the young Urman put Alfie’s arm over his shoulders and helped him out of the hut.

  He stepped outside into a small stockade settlement of wooden huts, flanked by Ranaman and Tarak, and a collective gasp arose from the rest of the clan as they saw their sky-being. They stood around swaying gently and muttering chants and litanies under their breaths, or making signs. They were elated. A litter stood adorned with gre
at fragrant blooms.

  He’d seen scenes like this several times, with the rest of the Ivanhoe crew dressed in their raincapes and chainmail splash masks, pretending to be priests, servants of Skarra the dung-beetle god of the underworld, as they tricked gullible Urmen clans. He’d always had a bad feeling then, but he’d never expected to bear the full brunt of their comeuppance. That just wasn’t bloody fair.

  What Alfie wouldn’t give for Norman and one of his music-hall magic tricks, or for the Ivanhoe to come crashing through the undergrowth like a wrathful god.

  AS THE REST of the clan watched, eyes wide in awe at the sky-being, Tarak helped him onto the litter. This was his doing. He was responsible for bringing this fortune upon the clan. The pride was evident in the young Urman’s face.

  “For me? You shouldn’t have,” said a resentful Alfie.

  Four Urmen picked the litter up to a great shout from the rest of the clan.

  “So,” said Alfie, though clenched teeth and pain. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To Croatoan’s Heart,” said Tarak, as if that explained everything.

  “Right,” he said, none the wiser.

  Holding his useless musket aloft, like an army band major, Ranaman led the procession out of the stockaded village. Two Urmen with burning torches joined him. Behind them came Urmen with metaltipped spears and metal swords, then Alfie in his litter, while the rest of the clan fell in at the rear, blowing horns and banging hollow gourds.

  The Urmen in front chanted as Ranaman led them along a narrow, but well-worn path. Tarak walked proudly beside the litter, where every misstep of the litter bearers transmitted itself to Alfie’s broken leg, amplifying every jolt and jar.

  “Oi, take it easy,” he berated the litter bearers. “Bloody hell, I got a smoother ride in the Ivanhoe, and that was with bleedin’ Wally driving!” Another jolt of pain seared up his leg. “Jeeeesus!”

  The Urmen with spears cut their way through the writhing lianas crossing their path. Great fleshy plant pitchers turned as they passed, as if watching them.

  Tarak pointed above the trees ahead of them, where a tall minaret pierced the sky. “There. The Heart of Croatoan,” he said, proudly.

  “Great.” Alfie smiled weakly, his mind racing, as every jar and jolt of the litter carried him nearer to his death. If he closed his eyes, he could see Nellie standing, feet astride, hand on hips, scolding him. “Alfie Perkins, don’t you dare sit there and accept your own death. You’ve got a brain. Use it.”

  There had to be a way out that would save him and the lad.

  The procession filed into a clearing, dominated by an ancient domed building, from the centre of which rose the minaret, a hundred feet into the air. Worn and weathered, the building had seen better days and had fallen into some disrepair. It had been built from clay brick, which lay exposed where the painted clay daub had crumbled away. Only a few stubborn patches remained. Around its circumference, small, regularly-spaced, unglazed windows were set into it; like loopholes, Alfie thought.

  The men carrying his litter placed it on the ground and Tarak hauled Alfie to his feet.

  Ranaman’s warriors unbarred the great wooden door, while Urmen holding torches entered ahead of the chieftain, their chants echoing round the space within.

  Tarak held onto Alfie’s arm tightly, as if aware that his life depended on him. Alfie tugged it experimentally. The youth did not look at him, but his grip tightened, perhaps fearing Alfie was about to fall, or escape.

  Ranaman reappeared and approached the pair. He placed a paternal hand on Tarak’s shoulder and spoke to Alfie.

  “You fell, as Croatoan once did. It is a powerful omen. Today you will talk with our dead. And from you we will learn their will.”

  Alfie blanched. How would they do that, exactly? Through some sort of divination? Perhaps it wasn’t his still-beating heart they were after; maybe it was his entrails. Alfie felt his stomach lurch. The day just gets better and better, he thought.

  They escorted him inside. It was gloomy and bare, lit by a circle of flaming sconces. At the centre of the domed temple, beneath the minaret, was a boulder the height of a man, a fracture down its middle cracking it in twain. There was enough space between the two halves that a man might walk between them. This was the Heart of Croatoan, Alfie assumed. A broken heart, as Ranaman had told him.

  Alfie’s heart felt like breaking, too. It was beating hard, loud, and far too fast in his chest. He could feel its pulsing echoes in his neck, his leg and his ears. He could feel panic tightening its grip on him, but it was a fear he knew. It was an old friend to a soldier.

  The clan filed into the temple behind him, moving out around the edge of the space, encircling the broken rock in the centre, their shadows dancing on the floor beneath flickering sconces.

  His chances of taking them on and getting out of there alive were slim now. Even Alfie could see that. Nonetheless, he strained his ears, hoping to catch the clanking rumble of the Ivanhoe, but heard nothing.

  Just him, then.

  Damn.

  Two Urmen stepped forward and took him from Tarak. The lad smiled at him as they took his arms and began to drag him towards the fractured rock. He cried out in pain, but his agony was lost in the rhythmic chants echoing around him. Shafts of light from the minaret focused on the rock, like spotlights on a Zeppelin.

  He struggled to look back over his shoulder at Tarak who, not comprehending his situation, looked on proudly, his chest falling and rising as he joined in with the chant.

  Ranaman waited for him in the space between the rocks.

  “No, wait...” said Alfie, seeing reddish stains on the surface of the boulders, thinking they were signs of previous sacrifices. Then he realised the rocks, the Heart of Croatoan, were composed of iron. This must have been where they got their knives and spearheads. The lad Tarak thought the ironclad Ivanhoe was the same thing. Another sky rock. Alfie groaned. Hoisted by his own petard.

  Ranaman walked between the two halves to the back of the temple. Two warriors held Alfie by the arms, his back to the rock. He couldn’t see what Ranaman was doing. He had a sudden urge, a need to know. He tried to twist his head to see over his shoulder, but all he could see was the rock.

  Panicking now, Alfie was turned round so he was facing the narrow gap between the rocks. As he was turned, he caught sight of Tarak watching with a fierce pride. The flanking warriors took Alfie’s arms and held one hand on each half of the shattered boulder.

  Ranaman returned through the cleft towards him, carrying a large ornately carved wooden box; the kind, Alfie thought grimly, that you would keep a ceremonial dagger in.

  The chanting rose to a crescendo and then ceased.

  “The time has come,” Ranaman called out.

  He opened the box and Alfie steeled himself for death.

  GAZETTE HAD HIS ear to the wall of the gaol chamber by the door. Denied the use of his keen sniper’s eye, he’d resorted to his hearing. He’d had his ear there for a while and his greasy ear prints stained the gritty hardened earth of the wall. “They’re taking another lot,” he said.

  The others rushed to the wall of the chamber, pressing their own ears to the hardened earth.

  Everson heard sounds of scuffles and angry protestations as scentirrii dragged other Fusiliers from their chamber.

  “Get your hands off me, you filthy Chatt!”

  “Knocker, no!”

  There was a charged crackle, a stunned groan and a heavy thump.

  “You bastards!” yelled Mercy, thumping the side of his fist against the wall.

  The Tommies vented their anger with shouts and threats, but at length turned despondently from the wall, as the padre offered up an Our Father, the quiet liturgical tone calming them. Porgy and Tonkins joined in quietly.

  Everson looked around at them. If there was any bunch worth being stuck with, it was Corporal Atkins and his Black Hand Gang. They’d had more experience of this planet than most others had and were still
alive to tell the tale, which gave them the edge.

  Right here, right now, they could do nothing but wait. Wait for the right moment, the right opportunity to act.

  They had examined the cell from top to bottom. There was no air vent through which they could escape. The only light came from the garde l’eau in the floor that projected out over the wall of the edifice. Even if they could enlarge the hole, there was a hundred-foot drop to the ground.

  The living plant door was cultivated for the purpose by the Chatts. Barbed thorns covered its surface, its roots bedded deep in the walls round the chamber’s circular opening. They knew from experience in Khungarr that it could fire its barbs in defence. There was no hiding place within the round bare chamber from them.

  To pass the time, the padre telled away at his Rosary in a Morse code of Hail Marys and Our Fathers, like a spiritual Iddy Umpty man seeking Divine orders from HQ.

  Hepton, sensing the hostility from the rank and file, had removed himself and sat across from the men, from where he shot them the morose glances of a beaten cur.

  Riley kept up a cheery disposition, keeping young Tonkins’ mind occupied with a series of trench anecdotes.

  Gutsy picked his teeth with the point of a sharpened Lucifer he had saved for just this purpose. There seemed to be nothing else to do in the gaol chamber.

  “Pity we haven’t got that pet Chatt of yours, Only,” he said as he winkled out a nub of chewed fungus and flicked it toward Hepton, who glared at him. “He could have talked to them for us.”

  “He was never my pet,” said Atkins with more bitterness than he meant. “And I don’t think it works that way. These Khungarrii and Zohtakarrii, they’re like rival colonies or something. Like Britain and Germany.”

  “And we’re in Germany?” said Porgy, trying to get his head round the analogy.

  “Ain’t that just our bloody luck?” chipped in Porgy. “And a bloody Jerry in charge, too.”