No Man's World: Omnibus Page 20

  In the cradle ahead of him, Jeffries could hear those damn women wailing at the sight. And from behind came the throttled voice of the padre, “Oh Lord, we are delivered into bondage.”

  As they passed into the shadow of the edifice, a large archway gaped before them and they entered into a great cathedral—like space. There the larval beasts were drawn to a halt against raised jetties, berthed there like boats so that the passengers, guards and captives alike might make an efficacious exit from the cradles. They were then led up sloping passages, before coming to a circular portal.

  The door seemed to be made of tough, fibrous plant material, covered with sharp, close-set thorns. One of the Chatts hissed at the door, expelling a spray from its mouth. The portal recoiled from the chemical mist, dilating open. Once the last man was ushered through, the door sealed behind him. Twenty-five soldiers, Napoo and three nurses found themselves incarcerated in a circular cell.

  Jeffries looked around their gaol. He noted that this side of the door was also bristling with close set thorns. Dim light filtered down from small windows high in the wall of the chamber. Also high up in the wall was a hole, from which could be heard a profusion of clicks and pops and from which proceeded a draught of air. A ventilation system, Jeffries thought. There was another source of light coming from a small hole in the floor at the far side of the room. Jeffries, suspecting what it was, peered over it gingerly. Through the hole, he could see the side of the tower plunging vertiginously away. The hole was a garderobe of sorts, a primitive toilet. Well, that was something, he supposed. He looked around the rest of the chamber. In places, the rough cinnamoncoloured walls were shiny, having been worn smooth over time by previous occupants, presumably. Captain Grantham sat against the wall, all pretence gone now, his authority all but evaporated. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he kept muttering. Jeffries, on the other hand, felt entirely calm and was quite content to wait.

  HE WAITED SOME hours and amused himself watching a group of Tommies commandeer one of the nurse’s white aprons and push it down out of the garderobe, to hang like a signal flag for any potential rescuers to see.

  It was several hours before the membranous plant-like door dilated open again. A few of the Tommies, who had been muttering together, suddenly rushed the aperture; no doubt in the hope of escape. “No!” cried Napoo, but it was too late. Crackling blue bolts of electrical energy met them as two Khungarrii Scentirrii discharged their lances. The soldiers jerked spasmodically for a moment before the light died and they crumpled to the floor. One of the nurses let out a scream, though the involuntary twitching of the fallen bodies showed that they were still alive. The two guards then stood to either side of the doorway, holding their lances.

  Three more arthropod creatures entered the chamber. One was tall and slender and wore a light cloak with a cowl over its head, covering its antenna. Its chitin was smooth and off-white, like bone china. Other than its eyes, maw and antennae, the dermal bone of its head was a featureless ovoid. Beneath the cloak, the creature wore a long length of tasselled white cloth wrapped over its right shoulder and down across its thorax, through which stunted, vestigial middle limbs tipped with single claws protruded.

  Hunched with subservience, the second Chatt was of a similar build. It wore no cloak but it did wear the same manner of cloth, though it had fewer tassels. Was that a rank thing? Jeffries realised its antennae were broken off, leaving little more than stumps.

  The third Chatt was more thickly built and heavily armoured than its companions, its faceplate flatter and broader with a suggestion of horns or antler nubs. It was similar in build and stature to the Khungarrii warriors behind it but for the surcoat of scarlet cloth it wore over its heavily armoured form, which did little to hide the bony protuberances rising from its armour.

  The cloth they wore seemed to be some form of silk, though whether it was spun by the creatures themselves or farmed from another species Jeffries could not fathom; the garments served no practical purpose that he could see, they were probably more ceremonial, like ecclesiastical vestments, he surmised.

  “Who among you speaks for your herd?” the tall, cowled one rasped, the clicking of its mandibles punctuating its dialogue. It spoke with a breathless, hissing vocalisation, like a man struggling to communicate with a tube in his neck, as if it was forcing itself to use organs for purposes other than for which they had evolved. All eyes turned warily towards Captain Grantham. He looked up with red-rimmed eyes, hardly seeming to comprehend what was happening. Jeffries watched the man struggle briefly with his conscience before remaining seated, stifling sobs. He felt no pity for the broken man. He was half-tempted to stand himself, but he had no idea of the Chatts’ intentions. They could merely want to kill the leader. He would wait and see.

  After a moment Padre Rand stood and, faltering, cleared his throat. “I am. These people are under my protection,” said the chaplain, his voice cracking as he held aloft his battered leather Bible, “and that of our Lord God, who watches over us.”

  Jeffries gave the man kudos for that. That was one thing you could say about the Catholic chaplains. They had guts, going up to the Front Line with only a copy of the Bible and their faith for protection. That was what endeared them to the men generally, that and the fact that many of them came from the lower classes and weren’t all well-to-do la-de-da-types, like the C of E chaplains.

  There was a brief discussion among the Chatts, with some animated waving of antennae, before they turned back to address the padre.

  However, Jeffries did not want this man, this mewling milksop of a shepherd, to speak for him, to assume authority over him. Whatever secrets and confidences these creatures had to share, they were his. He would not give up now. Seeing that it was safe, at least for now, Jeffries rose to his feet and coughed politely. “Thank you, there’s no need, Padre,” he said. He turned to the Chatts. “I’m next in command.”

  Padre Rand, unsure, looked at him then down at his Bible. Jeffries put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Sit down, Padre. This is my responsibility.”

  Padre Rand nodded and sank thankfully to the floor.

  Jeffries stepped forward, his arms wide.

  “I am Lieutenant Gilbert Jeffries, Number 4 Platoon, C Company, 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers.”

  The tall, regal Chatt regarded him, its antennae waving gently in his direction.

  “This One is Sirigar, liya-dhuyumirri, high anointed one of the Khungarrii Shura,” it said, its mandibles clicking and rubbing together like knitting needles. “That One is Chandar, this one’s gon-dhuyumirri olfactotum,” it indicated the smaller, submissive Chatt, and then the larger creature. “And that One is Rhengar, Scenturion, njurru-scentirri of Khungarr.”

  Introductions complete, the creature turned back to the huddled captives. “This One offers you a blessing in the name of GarSuleth,” it said. It opened its arms, pulling wide the robe it wore, revealing more clearly the smaller vestigial limbs at its abdomen, also splayed, and then raised its head. From somewhere within its mouthparts it sprayed mist into the air. Jeffries breathed in and, within seconds, recognised the feeling of mild drug-induced euphoria. Keeping eye contact with the round, glassy unblinking eyes before him he inhaled again, slowly, deeply, deliberately.

  EDITH HUGGED NELLY and Sister Fenton for reassurance. Some of the men closed ranks in front of them. The horrors of the last few days had begun to numb her, but the sound of the officer’s voice picked at the thick scab of denial that had grown over her recent experiences to the raw emotional wound beneath. There was something about his tone, supercilious and defiant. The insect spoke back. In English. Edith could feel the hairs on the back of her neck bristle with fear. There was a hiss of spray as the creature dosed the air with a vapour from its mouth. Almost immediately, the world seemed to slow down. The fears and terrors of the recent past lifted from her, like dandelion clocks drifting away on her outward breath. A languid sigh escaped her lips as she sank down to the floor with he
r companions. Senses baffled, a great lethargy overcame her. She looked up. The officer was still standing as the others sank to the floor around him. She was sure she knew his voice but her thoughts had become as thick and slow as treacle and then they ceased to bother her altogether. These creatures would not harm them. She forced her eyes slowly upward and looked at them, feeling content.

  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 cloisterlike 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 od
ours 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.”