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Authors: Pat Kelleher

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BOOK: Black Hand Gang
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Jeffries smiled. Rather helpfully, his own personal drug use had rendered him less susceptible than his fellows.

"Last man standing," he said with a wry smile.

The antennae stumps on the smaller creature were moving feebly. It reminded Jeffries of the hospitals back in 'Bertie with their beds full of raw amputees, their fresh tender stumps waggling clumsily, as if manipulating phantom limbs.

"Interesting defensive technique," he said, "dosing potential threats with a mild euphoric."

Rhengar spoke, preceded by a curious expansion of its chest, as if the creature was unfamiliar with filling its lungs with enough air for the effort of speech. Jeffries found the process quite engrossing.

"You will come with us," it said.

Rhengar turned to address the accompanying scentirrii in the harsh guttural smattering and clicks of its own tongue. They went over and picked up the Padre, who looked at them happily.

"Both of you."

 

They were taken out though the membranous aperture of the gaol chamber and led along passageways that sloped gently upwards and spiralled round. Set in niches along the way, luminescent lichen glowed, giving off a gentle blue-white light.

Sirigar walked on ahead, its silken vestments billowing out behind it. Before it now walked a smaller Chatt, some sort of juvenile nymph, perhaps, Jeffries thought. Its armour was translucent and not yet fully hardened and it swung some sort of censer before it, the heady incense masking all other smells. The accompanying Khungarr scentirrii escorted Jeffries and the Padre, while Rhengar brought up the rear.

Chandar was limping badly on one leg and attempting to keep up with Sirigar. Jeffries watched it trying to engage the creature in its own language. Its chattering grew excited before being abruptly cut off by a harsh plosive exclamation from Sirigar. Chandar dropped back, almost sheepishly, to walk beside Jeffries. The creature looked up at him, its antenna stumps twitching. "Your clothing is unusual," it said, picking at the cloth of his jacket.

"If you mean clean, then yes. I pride myself on my appearance," Jeffries brushed the Chatt's questing fingers away from his jacket before straightening his tie. "I find people respond favourably to a good first impression. It's always worked for me."

Chandar looked at him. Jeffries was used to reading people, prided himself on it in fact, but it was frustratingly impossible to read the expressionless facial plates of his captors. The tone of voice they used offered few clues either, speaking in what was, to them, a foreign language.

"The Khungarrii have been watching you for some time," it chittered. "The presence of your herd has provoked much debate."

"So I saw," said Jeffries, nodding towards Sirigar.

"Are you an anointed one? Dhuyumirri of your herd, like Sirigar? That One is high anointed one of the Khungarrii Shura."

"Oh, if it's faith you want, ask him," said Jeffries, jerking his head at the chaplain. "He's full of it."

More scentirrii marched past. Approaching Chatts obediently stopped to let the party pass. Urmen, on the other hand, vanished out of sight down side passages at their approach; heads bowed, eyes averted. Jeffries caught sight of them cowering in openings or cloister-like passages. Sirigar swept on past them all. The creature led them to a spacious and well-lit passage, whose dominating feature was an imposing ornate opening, decorated around its edge with some sort of hieroglyphs. Jeffries very much wanted to examine them, but he wasn't given the opportunity.

"We are come," Chandar chittered. "The chambers of the Anointed Ones, the goro dhuyumirrii."

A strong smell of incense greeted Jeffries from the darkened void beyond the door, an infusion of aromas that overwhelmed his senses and began to sting the inside of his nostrils, making his eyes water. Sirigar entered and the scentirrii ushered Jeffries and Rand into the chamber after, Chandar and Rhengar following.

The walls of a great domed chamber rose up, disappearing into the gloom above. Around the walls were curved man-sized alcoves that extended up from the ground, most were in shadow and the few he could see were occupied by more Chatts, who stood in them, facing the wall, their heads bowed. A low soft susurration filled the space, echoing in the dark space above. There was a noise like the soft clatter of cutlery in a canteen that, Jeffries realised, was the constant ticking and scissoring of mandibles in prayer. This was obviously some sort of sacred space, a temple of some sort, he mused.

Overhead, in the gloom, was what appeared to be a giant web. Sirigar paused to perform a gesture of deference and worship as they passed beneath it, clicking in what Jeffries assumed were reverent tones. The web, or what it represented, must have some great significance for them and he recalled what Napoo had said about this GarSuleth weaving the world. He noticed that some points on the web had been picked out with pieces of the bioluminescent lichen, but the meaning of their arrangement was lost on him.

"Pay homage to GarSuleth, the creator of all. Very few Urmen have the privilege of entering these chambers," said Chandar, bowing its head, touching its hands to the base of its antennae and then to its thorax and waiting for Jeffries and Rand to do the same.

Even through his euphoria, Rand frowned slowly. "I will not bow to a heathen god," he slurred drunkenly.

A hiss escaped from Rhengar's mouthparts. The scentirrii stepped closer, their lances poised, ready to punish any perceived blasphemy.

Jeffries, unwilling to lose whatever trust he might have gained, grabbed Rand firmly by the upper arm and brought his mouth close to the chaplain's ear. "Just do it, Padre. We're in the midst of a nest of insect savages. If you know anything of entomology, there are probably a hundred ways they might kill us and I, for one, do not intend to be a martyr. Now bow!"

Reluctantly the Padre repeated the movement Chandar had shown them, and Jeffries did likewise. The scentirrii relaxed their stance and, as they continued their way across the chamber, Jeffries glanced up at the web. Was it home to some primitive creature that they kept and worshipped as a god? He briefly envisioned being cocooned and left as a sacrifice to some great bloated thing and then, more pleasantly, imagined the Padre there instead.

They were ushered through an arch at the far side of the room and along a series of passages and interconnecting chambers where members of Sirigar and Chandar's caste were engaged in various alchemical tasks. Finally, they were led into a smaller room, the main feature of which was several large piles of plundered trench equipment. At a glance Jeffries saw thigh boots, scaling ladders, waterproof capes, cooking utensils, fleabags, rifles, an old grenade catapult, trench mortar shells, a primus stove, Mills bombs, periscopes, a pickelhaube, latrine buckets, a gas gong, a sniper's loophole plate, several steel helmets, cases of small arms ammunition and, he noticed - partially hidden by tarpaulin - what looked to be several rusted old pressurised canisters of chlorine gas. Where the hell had they found those?

"These things are unknown to the Ones," said Rhengar. "They stink of decay and corruption as do you. The Ones would know their uses and your intentions."

"Intentions?" said Jeffries.

He was being judged and everything hung on how well he passed the test. He assumed that if they found out the true nature of some of the things around them, then whatever dialogue they might have would be cut very short indeed. A degree of diplomacy was called for.

"Most nomadic Urmen know better than to resist the Ones," continued Rhengar, "yet your herd is large and aggressive and you have made your clumsy delvings in Khungarrii territory. Our scentirrii were alerted to your presence spinnings ago. Your odours were carried before you on the breath of GarSuleth. The Khungarrii could not fail to notice it, it overpowered everything, almost obscuring the sacred scents themselves."

"And the Unguents of Huyurarr have long heralded the coming of a great corruption. There are those amongst the Ones who, upon sensing your putrescence, fear for their very existence," said Sirigar. "Are those Ones wrong?"

To Jeffries it sounded very much like the case was already stacking up against them. He had to think fast.

"If GarSuleth wills it," he said.

Chandar had been rummaging through the pile of looted trench items with a degree of curiosity, making smacking and clicking noises with every item he examined. "And this," it said, picking up a piece of field kit. "What is it?"

"An entrenching tool. For digging. These other things are harmless, I assure you."

"And these?"

"Boots, gum, soldiers, for the use of," Jeffries answered, mocking the Chatts with a parody of quartermaster's speech.

Rhengar picked up a rifle. "And this? What is this? Khungarrii fell before these without being touched."

"Skarra take them," intoned Chandar, head bowed.

"As we did before your electric lances. You know this is a weapon and I assure you we are quite adept at using them"

Rhengar snapped its mandibles together rapidly, rising up on its legs until it towered over Jeffries. The effect was unsettling, which was probably the entire point.

"Do not presume to threaten the Ones," the Scenturion chittered, its mandibles slicing furiously. "If you are a harm to the Ones, then the Ones will cull you the way it has been done with Urmanii in the past, otherwise you shall be absorbed into Khungarrii worker caste to toil for the good of Khungarr."

"Rhengar, you forget yourself ," said Sirigar. "This Urman can not harm us. Is it not still under my benediction?"

Rhengar backed off.

"I do see your dilemma," said Jeffries tactfully. "Believe me, I do."

"Your dilemma too, Urman," reminded Rhengar.

"You do not worship GarSuleth," said Sirigar. It was a statement rather than a question.

"No," said Jeffries, turning from Rhengar. "I worship... another." He wanted to pursue the subject but Napoo had told him Croatoan was heresy here and now probably wasn't the right moment. He would have to bide his time. He just hoped he had enough. At best, he had a day to get the information he required. Bloody Everson would see to that. The man was transparent. He'd come charging to the rescue like he was the BEF.

"Take your despicable claws off that, heathen!" said the Padre drunkenly. Chandar had attempted to take the Bible from the Padre's hands.

"Chandar!" Sirigar scolded. "You are not here to indulge your inconsequential and heretical studies. You are only here under sufferance, do not test this One."

Jeffries' ears pricked up at the word 'heretical'. This Chandar, despite its broken appearance, might be more interesting than it at first appeared.

Chandar responded to Sirigar in a rapid rattle of mandibles. Sirigar retorted. They sounded like a pair of angry crows. There was obviously a great difference of opinion being expressed and it was being expressed physically, in a series of stylised movements. Actions seemed to define and punctuate argument and proposition, counter-argument and denial. Like dancing bees, thought Jeffries.

The attention of the other Chatts was momentarily drawn to the sparring pair and, seeing his chance, Jeffries deftly palmed the pistol he had been eyeing on the nearby pile of equipment, thrusting it under his jacket and down the waistband of his trousers.

Chandar sank lower and backed away, obviously losing the exchange to Sirigar, who hissed triumphantly, its mandibles and arms splayed.

Jeffries, however, had come to a decision. There must have been a reason the rest of the battalion had been spared the blood sacrifice that brought him here. Until now, he hadn't been able to see it.

He turned smartly and addressed his captors. "Gentlemen!" he said brightly, with a clap, as if about to suggest a bracing snifter down the club. "You say we have a choice between annihilation and subjugation?"

Rhengar and Sirigar exchanged glances, their antennae twitching.

"It'll be difficult, but, yes, I believe I can deliver my people," said Jeffries. "For a price."

INTERLUDE 4

 

Letter from Private Thomas Atkins

to Flora Mullins

 

16
th
November 1916

 

Dear Flora,

I am well and have acquired a pet now. Gordon is a blessed nuisance, but he ain't half good at chatting shirts. I thought once the Lt. found out about him I'd have to get rid, but he says Gordon's fancy for the verminous louse has sent cases of trench fever down, so I guess I'm stuck with him.

Thanks to a local native we met, called Napoo, our diet has improved. After days of bully beef and hard tack we now have fresh fruit, although my hands are raw and my back is aching from picking the stuff. I don't think I'm cut out for country life. Living in holes and grubbing a living from the land isn't easy. We need more than this if we are to survive. An estaminet wouldn't go amiss, for a start, although after an unfortunate incident I've sworn off drink for the duration.

We were out picking more fruit when there was a raid on our trenches by some bug-eyed Bosche and some of our chaps were snatched. Lt. Everson gave a speech and whipped the lads' dander up good and proper. We're setting out to get them back. The Lt. says they've enslaved the local natives, too. It's disheartening to find that there are tyrants everywhere, but I suppose this is why I volunteered.

These Chatts, as the lads call them, make you feel squeamish just looking at 'em and, after what we had to put up with on the Somme, that's saying something. Anyway, the Lt says these things may know how we can get home too. That is my dearest wish, next to William returning safe and sound.

 

Ever yours,

Thomas

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

"There's a Long, Long Trail..."

 

The rescue party set off several hours after the attack, the patriotic cheers of those left guarding the entrenchment ringing in their ears, the pride singing in their blood as the tank led the column off. Everson had made his point and without having to order them, in all, sixty men had volunteered for the dangerous raid, including 1 Section. Porgy said it was the biggest Black Hand Gang he'd ever seen. Poilus reluctantly agreed to accompany them, despite his fear of the tank, which he believed to be some sort of demon. Even Hepton volunteered, the chance of obtaining more heroic and fantastical footage proving too great to resist. Among those who stayed behind was Tulliver. Until he could repair his machine, he was grounded.

BOOK: Black Hand Gang
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