Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

“How did you know about that?” Everson asked.

The Padre was in an aid post, sat on a barrel, having his wound redressed by Nurse Bell. The bruising on his still swollen temple was now turning a dull green. It throbbed.

“Secrets of the confessional,” said the Padre, glancing absently at Nurse Bell. “Never mind how I know, John. Is it true?”

“Yes. If there is a possibility of some armistice with these creatures, then it’s a chance I have to take. I need someone who can be diplomatic, who can advocate for us. I can’t pretend it won’t be risky. I can’t assure the safety of anyone who goes.”

From the moment he heard of Everson’s dilemma, the Padre knew with certainty what he had to do. He had been looking for a sign. Surely, this was Divine Providence at work. A return to Khungarr. There, where it all began, he might uncover what dark revelations his vision harboured. He drew himself up, grimacing as his head pounded.

“Then I will go,” he said. “As commanding officer you can’t go yourself; you can’t send a soldier, you can’t spare the officers. I’m the logical choice. They might hold you responsible for the damage caused to their edifice, but a priest? I might be more acceptable as an observer.”

“I’ll go with him,” said Edith, taking a step forward before she knew she was saying it.

The men stared at her.

“What, might I not know my own mind?” she countered. “I’m concerned about the Padre’s injury. He’s not yet fully recovered. At least if I am with him, I can take care of it.”

“It’s not necessary, Nurse,” the Padre protested.

“Nurse Bell–” Everson began.

“What?” Nurse Bell glowered. “You let Nellie go off to find the Ivanhoe . I’ve faced many fears since we arrived here, Lieutenant,” she said, “and become the stronger for it. And both the Padre and I have been to Khungarr before.”

“As prisoners,” Everson reminded her gently.

“Then let me go back of my own free will, face my fears, and do my job!”

Everson raised his eyebrows in appeal to the Padre for support, but the chaplain seemed just as taken aback by the strength of the young woman’s conviction.

Everson sighed with exasperation. “Nurse Bell, if you’re convinced the Padre needs medical supervision, then yes, I agree.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Padre.

“You’re letting me go?” she asked with disbelief.

“Yes, although any more outbursts like that and I might change my mind.”

Nurse Bell’s face flushed.

Everson clasped the Padre’s hands. “There’s not a lot I trust on this world, but I trust you, Padre. I need you fit and well.”

The Padre smiled faintly. “I tend to put my trust in the Lord, John, but I’m sure He won’t take it personally.”

EVERSON COULDN’T SPARE the men to escort them across the veldt, but then he didn’t need to. They had the captured battlepillars. It would be much quicker and safer to cross the veldt on one of those.

In the aid tent, Edith hid the small jar containing the Commentaries of Chitaragar in her haversack of medical supplies. They hoped that the scents and aromas of the various medicines and unguents would disguise any tell-tale signs of the potential heresy they were effectively smuggling into Khungarr. Everson also provided her with a bottle of distilled petrol fruit fuel, for Chandar’s personal use.

Atkins and his section escorted the chatt to the old Poulet farmhouse where the battlepillar was waiting, a sapper sat in the howdah at the great beast’s head.

Everson shook the Padre’s hand. “Good luck, Padre. And thank you.”

The Padre nodded towards the camp. “Don’t forget, John: they’re not soldiers, they’re men.”

Everson nodded, then turned to Nurse Bell. “Look after him. And yourself. I don’t want another Edith Cavell on my hands.”

“I will, Lieutenant. Thank you,” she said.

The Padre and Nurse Bell climbed a ladder to a large cradle slung along the side of the beast.

“I don’t want them to come to any harm,” Everson warned Chandar as the chatt clambered aboard the cradle.

“They will be safe under this One’s protection.”

EVERSON STOOD ON the OP platform of the Poulet Farmhouse and watched the small party as even the huge battlepillar was gradually swallowed by the immensity of the veldt before them.

Hobson appeared beside him and watched in silence for a moment.

“Do you trust ’em, sir? The chatts, I mean.”

“Chandar? Maybe. The rest? Not as far as I can throw them, sergeant,” Everson said.

“Glad to hear it, sir,” said Hobson, walking along behind him as they strode down the communication trench and up the crude earthen steps onto the ground towards the hospital tents.

“This is why I want insurance.”

Everson entered the Aid tent, and Stanton the medical orderly stood to attention. He returned the salute crisply and got down to business. “I’m given to understand you used to work in a cotton mill in the chemical labs before the war, Stanton.”

“Sir.”

“Then I have a job for you. I need your expertise, not as a medical orderly but as a chemist.”

“Sir?”

“You remember the Khungarrii attack on the trenches?”

“Of course, sir.”

“The poppies out beyond the front line disorientated the chatts somehow, threw them into confusion. Maybe it was something in their scent.”

“Excuse me, sir, but poppies don’t smell.”

“Maybe not to us, Stanton. But one cannot doubt their effect on the chatts. We all saw it and were able to take advantage of it. Maybe there is something in the poppies against which they have no natural defence, because it’s alien to this world. There has to be a way we can harness that effect deliberately; enhance it, strengthen it, turn it into something we can use against them.”

“Like a gas, sir?”

Everson nodded his head with approval. “Yes. Something that we can use to de-louse on a large scale. Do you want to have a crack at it?”

Stanton’s eyes widened and he stood straighter, taller. He pushed out his chest. “Me, sir? Just give me a chance, sir.”

“Then you’ve got it, Stanton,” said Everson, handing him a scrap of paper. “The men on this list have chemical or horticultural experience that might help. See what you can come up with.”

Stanton took the paper and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“The Padre was right,” Everson confided in Hobson as they left the tent. “I’d forgotten that they were men before the war. Appealing to their sense of duty wasn’t enough. I have to appeal to the man.”

“Very wise, sir,” said Hobson.

Several electric blue flashes crackled and bloomed briefly above the trenches within the support ring, accompanied by too brief a scream.

“What the hell?”

Everson had seen the phenomenon before in the presence of Khungarrii electric lances. Was it a raiding party? And if it was, how the hell did they get past the sentries? Shouts of alarm went up from various quarters. Everson drew his Webley and weaved his way through the trenches towards the disturbance.

Everson and Hobson met near the fire bay with several other soldiers also converging on the scene.

Hobson nodded at them.

“Trench clearance formation,” he hissed.

After the mutiny, only those on sentry duty had magazines and loaded rifles. The others had to make do with their bayonets.

Hobson peered round the sandbag traverse. “Clear,” he hissed back.

The clearance party slipped into the unoccupied fire bay as Everson moved to enter the next.

He peered cautiously round the separating traverse, his revolver cocked.

A soldier lay splayed on the floor of the bay, his body wracked in spasms. He kicked and thrashed spastically, his boots scraping against the duckboards. Wisps of smoke rose from the soles. A Corporal was knelt beside him, trying to place an old strip of leather belt between his teeth. “Bite down on this, now, Tonkers. Bite down, that’s it.”